m 

'I  -'  "        L/&     <X> 

//j  /fP/ 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 


She  clutched  the  sailorman  in  both  her  hands,  and 
kissed  the  beseeching,  worshipping  smile. 


THE  NOVELS  AND  STORIES  OF 
RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 


THE 
RED  CROSS  GIRL 


BY 

RICHARD   HARDING   DAVIS 


WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 

GOUVERNEUR  MORRIS 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1920 


The  first  seven  stories  In  this  volume  from  "  The  Red  Crass 
Girl,"  copyright,  1912,  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS; 
"The  Card-Sharp"  from  "Somewhere  in  France," 
copyright,  1915,  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 


"The  J?o«  Who  Cried  Wolf."  copyright,  1916,  by  THE 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
LSS  J-CSIUNEX'S  SONS 


TO 

BESSIE  McCOY  DAVIS 


95S4S4 


R.  H.  D. 

"  And  they  rise  to  their  feet  as  he  passes,  gentlemen  unafraid." 

HE  was  almost  too  good  to  be  true.  In  addition, 
the  gods  loved  him,  and  so  he  had  to  die  young. 
Some  people  think  that  a  man  of  fifty-two  is  middle- 
aged.  But  if  R.  H.  D.  had  lived  to  be  a  hundred, 
he  would  never  have  grown  old.  It  is  not  generally 
known  that  the  name  of  his  other  brother  was 
Peter  Pan. 

Within  the  year  we  have  played  at  pirates  to 
gether,  at  the  taking  of  sperm  whales;  and  we  have 
ransacked  the  Westchester  Hills  for  gunsites  against 
the  Mexican  invasion.  And  we  have  made  lists  of 
guns,  and  medicines,  and  tinned  things,  in  case  we 
should  ever  happen  to  go  elephant  shooting  in 
Africa.  But  we  weren't  going  to  hurt  the  elephants. 
Once  R.  H.  D.  shot  a  hippopotamus  and  he  was 
always  ashamed  and  sorry.  I  think  he  never  killed 
anything  else.  He  wasn't  that  kind  of  a  sportsman. 
Of  hunting,  as  of  many  other  things,  he  has  said 
the  last  word.  Do  you  remember  the  Happy  Hunt 
ing  Ground  in  "The  Bar  Sinister"  ?— " Where  no 
body  hunts  us,  and  there  is  nothing  to  hunt." 

Experienced  persons  tell  us  that  a  man-hunt  is 
vii 


R.  H.  D. 

the  most  exciting  of  all  sports.  R.  H.  D.  hunted 
men  in  Cuba.  He  hunted  for  wounded  men  who 
were  out  in  front  of  the  trenches  and  still  under  fire, 
and  found  some  of  them  and  brought  them  in.  The 
Rough  Riders  didn't  make  him  an  honorary  mem 
ber  of  their  regiment  just  because  he  was  charming 
and  a  faithful  friend,  but  largely  because  they  were 
a  lot  of  daredevils  and  he  was  another. 

To  hear  him  talk  you  wouldn't  have  thought 
that  he  had  ever  done  a  brave  thing  in  his  life.  He 
talked  a  great  deal,  and  he  talked  even  better  than 
he  wrote  (at  his  best  he  wrote  like  an  angel),  but  I 
have  dusted  every  corner  of  my  memory  and  can 
not  recall  any  story  of  his  in  which  he  played  a 
heroic  or  successful  part.  Always  he  was  running 
at  top  speed,  or  hiding  behind  a  tree,  or  lying  face 
down  in  a  foot  of  water  (for  hours !)  so  as  not  to  be 
seen.  Always  he  was  getting  the  worst  of  it.  But 
about  the  other  fellows  he  told  the  whole  truth  with 
lightning  flashes  of  wit  and  character  building  and 
admiration  or  contempt.  Until  the  invention  of 
moving  pictures  the  world  had  nothing  in  the  least 
like  his  talk.  His  eye  had  photographed,  his  mind 
had  developed  and  prepared  the  slides,  his  words 
sent  the  light  through  them,  and  lo  and  behold, 
they  were  reproduced  on  the  screen  of  your  own 
mind,  exact  m  drawing  and  color.  With  the 
written  word  or  the  spoken  word  he  was  the  greatest 
recorder  and  reporter  of  things  that  he  had  seen  of 

viii 


R.  H.  D. 

any  man,  perhaps,  that  ever  lived.  The  history  of 
the  last  thirty  years,  its  manners  and  customs  and 
its  leading  events  and  inventions,  cannot  be  written 
truthfully  without  reference  to  the  records  which 
he  has  left,  to  his  special  articles  and  to  his  letters. 
Read  over  again  the  Queen's  Jubilee,  the  Czar's 
Coronation,  the  March  of  the  Germans  through 
Brussels,  and  see  for  yourself  if  I  speak  too  zealously, 
even  for  a  friend,  to  whom,  now  that  R.  H.  D.  is 
dead,  the  world  can  never  be  the  same  again. 

But  I  did  not  set  out  to  estimate  his  genius. 
That  matter  will  come  in  due  time  before  the  un 
erring  tribunal  of  posterity. 

One  secret  of  Mr.  Roosevelt's  hold  upon  those 
who  come  into  contact  with  him  is  his  energy.  Re 
taining  enough  for  his  own  use  (he  uses  a  good  deal, 
because  every  day  he  does  the  work  of  five  or  six 
men),  he  distributes  the  inexhaustible  remainder 
among  those  who  most  need  it.  Men  go  to  him 
tired  and  discouraged,  he  sends  them  away  glad  to 
be  alive,  still  gladder  that  he  is  alive,  and  ready  to 
fight  the  devil  himself  in  a  good  cause.  Upon  his 
friends  R.  H.  D.  had  the  same  effect.  And  it  was 
not  only  in  proximity  that  he  could  distribute  en 
ergy,  but  from  afar,  by  letter  and  cable.  He  had 
some  intuitive  way  of  knowing  just  when  you  were 
slipping  into  a  slough  of  laziness  and  discourage 
ment.  And  at  such  times  he  either  appeared  sud 
denly  upon  the  scene,  or  there  came  a  boy  on  a 

ix 


R.  H.  D. 

bicycle,  with  a  yellow  envelope  and  a  book  to  sign, 
or  the  postman  in  his  buggy,  or  the  telephone  rang 
and  from  the  receiver  there  poured  into  you  affec 
tion  and  encouragement. 

But  the  great  times,  of  course,  were  when  he 
came  in  person,  and  the  temperature  of  the  house, 
which  a  moment  before  had  been  too  hot  or  too 
cold,  became  just  right,  and  a  sense  of  cheerfulness 
and  well-being  invaded  the  hearts  of  the  master  and 
the  mistress  and  of  the  servants  in  the  house  and 
in  the  yard.  And  the  older  daughter  ran  to  him, 
and  the  baby,  who  had  been  fretting  because  no 
body  would  give  her  a  double-barrelled  shotgun, 
climbed  upon  his  knee  and  forgot  all  about  the  dis 
appointments  of  this  uncompromising  world. 

He  was  touchingly  sweet  with  children.  I  think 
he  was  a  little  afraid  of  them.  He  was  afraid  per 
haps  that  they  wouldn't  find  out  how  much  he 
loved  them.  But  when  they  showed  him  that  they 
trusted  him,  and,  unsolicited,  climbed  upon  him 
and  laid  their  cheeks  against  his,  then  the  loveliest 
expression  came  over  his  face,  and  you  knew  that 
the  great  heart,  which  the  other  day  ceased  to  beat, 
throbbed  with  an  exquisite  bliss,  akin  to  anguish. 

One  of  the  happiest  days  I  remember  was  when 
I  and  mine  received  a  telegram  saying  that  he  had 
a  baby  of  his  own.  And  I  thank  God  that  little 
Miss  Hope  is  too  young  to  know  what  an  appalling 
loss  she  has  suffered. 


R.  H.  D. 

Perhaps  he  stayed  to  dine.  Then  perhaps  the 
older  daughter  was  allowed  to  sit  up  an  extra  half- 
hour  so  that  she  could  wait  on  the  table  (and 
though  I  say  it,  that  shouldn't,  she  could  do  this 
beautifully,  with  dignity  and  without  giggling), 
and  perhaps  the  dinner  was  good,  or  R.  H.  D. 
thought  it  was,  and  in  that  event  he  must  abandon 
his  place  and  storm  the  kitchen  to  tell  the  cook  all 
about  it.  Perhaps  the  gardener  was  taking  life 
easy  on  the  kitchen  porch.  He,  too,  came  in  for 
praise.  R.  H.  D.  had  never  seen  our  Japanese  iris 
so  beautiful;  as  for  his,  they  wouldn't  grow  at  all. 
It  wasn't  the  iris,  it  was  the  man  behind  the  iris. 
And  then  back  he  would  come  to  us,  with  a  won 
derful  story  of  his  adventures  in  the  pantry  on  his 
way  to  the  kitchen,  and  leaving  behind  him  a  cook 
to  whom  there  had  been  issued  a  new  lease  of  life, 
and  a  gardener  who  blushed  and  smiled  in  the  dark 
ness  under  the  Actinidia  vines. 

It  was  in  our  little  house  at  Aiken,  in  South  Caro 
lina,  that  he  was  with  us  most  and  we  learned  to 
know  him  best,  and  that  he  and  I  became  depend 
ent  upon  each  other  in  many  ways. 

Events,  into  which  I  shall  not  go,  had  made  his 
life  very  difficult  and  complicated.  And  he  who 
had  given  so  much  friendship  to  so  many  people 
needed  a  little  friendship  in  return,  and  perhaps, 
too,  he  needed  for  a  time  to  live  in  a  house  whose 
master  and  mistress  loved  each  other,  and  where 

xi 


R.  H.  D. 

there  were  children.  Before  he  came  that  first  year 
our  house  had  no  name.  Now  it  is  called  "Let's 
Pretend." 

Now  the  chimney  in  the  living-room  draws,  but 
in  those  first  days  of  the  built-over  house  it  didn't. 
At  least,  it  didn't  draw  all  the  time,  but  we  pre 
tended  that  it  did,  and  with  much  pretense  came 
faith.  From  the  fireplace  that  smoked  to  the  seri 
ous  things  of  life  we  extended  our  pretendings,  until 
real  troubles  went  down  before  them — down  and 
out. 

It  was  one  of  Aiken's  very  best  winters,  and  the 
earliest  spring  I  ever  lived  anywhere.  R.  H.  D. 
came  shortly  after  Christmas.  The  spiraeas  were  in 
bloom,  and  the  monthly  roses;  you  could  always  find 
a  sweet  violet  or  two  somewhere  in  the  yard;  here 
and  there  splotches  of  deep  pink  against  gray  cabin 
walls  proved  that  precocious  peach-trees  were  in 
bloom.  It  never  rained.  At  night  it  was  cold 
enough  for  fires.  In  the  middle  of  the  day  it  was 
hot.  The  wind  never  blew,  and  every  morning  we 
had  a  four  for  tennis  and  every  afternoon  we  rode 
in  the  woods.  And  every  night  we  sat  in  front  of 
the  fire  (that  didn't  smoke  because  of  pretending) 
and  talked  until  the  next  morning. 

He  was  one  of  those  rarely  gifted  men  who  find 
their  chiefest  pleasure  not  in  looking  backward  or 
forward,  but  in  what  is  going  on  at  the  moment. 
Weeks  did  not  have  to  pass  before  it  was  forced  upon 

xii 


R.  H.  D. 

his  knowledge  that  Tuesday,  the  fourteenth  (let  us 
say),  had  been  a  good  Tuesday.  He  knew  it  the 
moment  he  waked  at  7  A.  M.  and  perceived  the 
Tuesday  sunshine  making  patterns  of  bright  light 
upon  the  floor.  The  sunshine  rejoiced  him  and  the 
knowledge  that  even  before  breakfast  there  was 
vouchsafed  to  him  a  whole  hour  of  life.  That  day 
began  with  attentions  to  his  physical  well-being. 
There  were  exercises  conducted  with  great  vigor 
and  rejoicing,  followed  by  a  tub,  artesian  cold,  and 
a  loud  and  joyous  singing  of  ballads. 

At  fifty  R.  H.  D.  might  have  posed  to  some 
Praxiteles  and,  copied  in  marble,  gone  down  the 
ages  as  "statue  of  a  young  athlete."  He  stood  six 
feet  and  over,  straight  as  a  Sioux  chief,  a  noble  and 
leonine  head  carried  by  a  splendid  torso.  His  skin 
was  as  fine  and  clean  as  a  child's.  He  weighed 
nearly  two  hundred  pounds  and  had  no  fat  on  him. 
He  was  the  weight-throwing  rather  than  the  running 
type  of  athlete,  but  so  tenaciously  had  he  clung  to 
the  suppleness  of  his  adolescent  days  that  he  could 
stand  stiff-legged  and  lay  his  hands  flat  upon  the 
floor. 

The  singing  over,  silence  reigned.  But  if  you  had 
listened  at  his  door  you  must  have  heard  a  pen 
going,  swiftly  and  boldly.  He  was  hard  at  work, 
doing  unto  others  what  others  had  done  unto  him. 
You  were  a  stranger  to  him;  some  magazine  had 
accepted  a  story  that  you  had  written  and  pub- 

xiii 


R.  H.  D. 

lished  it.  R.  H.  D.  had  found  something  to  like 
and  admire  in  that  story  (very  little  perhaps),  and 
it  was  his  duty  and  pleasure  to  tell  you  so.  If  he 
had  liked  the  story  very  much  he  would  send  you 
instead  of  a  note  a  telegram.  Or  it  might  be  that 
you  had  drawn  a  picture,  or,  as  a  cub  reporter, 
had  shown  golden  promise  in  a  half  column  of  un 
signed  print,  R.  H.  D.  would  find  you  out,  and  find 
time  to  praise  you  and  help  you.  So  it  was  that 
when  he  emerged  from  his  room  at  sharp  eight 
o'clock,  he  was  wide-awake  and  happy  and  hungry, 
and  whistled  and  double-shuffled  with  his  feet,  out 
of  excessive  energy,  and  carried  in  his  hands  a  whole 
sheaf  of  notes  and  letters  and  telegrams. 

Breakfast  with  him  was  not  the  usual  American 
breakfast,  a  sullen,  dyspeptic  gathering  of  persons 
who  only  the  night  before  had  rejoiced  in  each 
other's  society.  With  him  it  was  the  time  when 
the  mind  is,  or  ought  to  be,  at  its  best,  the  body  at 
its  freshest  and  hungriest.  Discussions  of  the  latest 
plays  and  novels,  the  doings  and  undoings  of  states 
men,  laughter  and  sentiment — to  him,  at  breakfast, 
these  things  were  as  important  as  sausages  and 
thick  cream. 

Breakfast  over,  there  was  no  dawdling  and  put 
ting  ofF  of  the  day's  work  (else  how,  at  eleven  sharp, 
could  tennis  be  played  with  a  free  conscience  ?). 
Loving,  as  he  did,  everything  connected  with  a 
newspaper,  he  would  now  pass  by  those  on  the 

xiv 


R.  H.  D. 

hall-table  with  never  so  much  as  a  wistful  glance, 
and  hurry  to  his  workroom. 

He  wrote  sitting  down.  He  wrote  standing  up. 
And,  almost  you  may  say,  he  wrote  walking  up  and 
down.  Some  people,  accustomed  to  the  delicious 
ease  and  clarity  of  his  style,  imagine  that  he  wrote 
very  easily.  He  did  and  he  didn't.  Letters,  easy, 
clear,  to  the  point,  and  gorgeously  human,  flowed 
from  him  without  let  or  hindrance.  That  master 
piece  of  corresponding,  "The  German  March  Through 
Brussels,"  was  probably  written  almost  as  fast  as 
he  could  talk  (next  to  Phillips  Brooks,  he  was  the 
fastest  talker  I  ever  heard),  but  when  it  came  to 
fiction  he  had  no  facility  at  all.  Perhaps  I  should 
say  that  he  held  in  contempt  any  facility  that  he 
may  have  had.  It  was  owing  to  his  incomparable 
energy  and  Joblike  patience  that  he  ever  gave  us 
any  fiction  at  all.  Every  phrase  in  his  fiction  was, 
of  all  the  myriad  phrases  he  could  think  of,  the  fit 
test  in  his  relentless  judgment  to  survive.  Phrases, 
paragraphs,  pages,  whole  stories  even,  were  written 
over  and  over  again.  He  worked  upon  a  principle 
of  elimination.  If  he  wished  to  describe  an  auto 
mobile  turning  in  at  a  gate,  he  made  first  a  long  and 
elaborate  description  from  which  there  was  omitted 
no  detail,  which  the  most  observant  pair  of  eyes  in 
Christendom  had  ever  noted  with  reference  to  just 
such  a  turning.  Thereupon  he  would  begin  a  proc 
ess  of  omitting  one  by  one  those  details  which  he 

xv 


R.  H.  D. 

had  been  at  such  pains  to  recall;  and  after  each 
omission  he  would  ask  himself:  "Does  the  picture 
remain  ?"  If  it  did  not,  he  restored  the  detail  which 
he  had  just  omitted,  and  experimented  with  the 
sacrifice  of  some  other,  and  so  on,  and  so  on,  until 
after  Herculean  labor  there  remained  for  the  reader 
one  of  those  swiftly  flashed,  ice-clear  pictures  (com 
plete  in  every  detail)  with  which  his  tales  and  ro 
mances  are  so  delightfully  and  continuously  adorned. 

But  it  is  quarter  to  eleven,  and,  this  being  a  time 
of  holiday,  R.  H.  D.  emerges  from  his  workroom 
happy  to  think  that  he  has  placed  one  hundred  and 
seven  words  between  himself  and  the  wolf  who 
hangs  about  every  writer's  door.  He  isn't  satisfied 
with  those  hundred  and  seven  words.  He  never 
was  in  the  least  satisfied  with  anything  that  he 
wrote,  but  he  has  searched  his  mind  and  his  con 
science  and  he  believes  that  under  the  circumstances 
they  are  the  very  best  that  he  can  do.  Anyway, 
they  can  stand  in  their  present  order  until — after 
lunch. 

A  sign  of  his  youth  was  the  fact  that  to  the  day 
of  his  death  he  had  denied  himself  the  luxury  and 
slothfulness  of  habits.  I  have  never  seen  him  smoke 
automatically  as  most  men  do.  He  had  too  much 
respect  for  his  own  powers  of  enjoyment  and  for 
the  sensibilities,  perhaps,  of  the  best  Havana  to 
bacco.  At  a  time  of  his  own  deliberate  choosing, 
often  after  many  hours  of  hankering  and  renuncia- 

xvi 


R.  H.  D. 

tion,  he  smoked  his  cigar.  He  smoked  it  with  de 
light,  with  a  sense  of  being  rewarded,  and  he  used 
all  the  smoke  there  was  in  it. 

He  dearly  loved  the  best  food,  the  best  cham 
pagne,  and  the  best  Scotch  whiskey.  But  these 
things  were  friends  to  him,  and  not  enemies.  He 
had  toward  food  and  drink  the  Continental  attitude; 
namely,  that  quality  is  far  more  important  than 
quantity;  and  he  got  his  exhilaration  from  the  fact 
that  he  was  drinking  champagne  and  not  from  the 
champagne.  Perhaps  I  shall  do  well  to  say  that 
on  questions  of  right  and  wrong  he  had  a  will  of 
iron.  All  his  life  he  moved  resolutely  in  whichever 
direction  his  conscience  pointed;  and,  although  that 
ever  present  and  never  obtrusive  conscience  of  his 
made  mistakes  of  judgment  now  and  then,  as  must 
all  consciences,  I  think  it  can  never  once  have 
tricked  him  into  any  action  that  was  impure  or  un 
clean.  Some  critics  maintain  that  the  heroes  and 
heroines  of  his  books  are  impossibly  pure  and  inno 
cent  young  people.  R.  H.  D.  never  called  upon  his 
characters  for  any  trait  of  virtue,  or  renunciation, 
or  self-mastery  of  which  his  own  life  could  not  fur 
nish  examples. 

Fortunately,  he  did  not  have  for  his  friends  the 
same  conscience  that  he  had  for  himself.  His  great 
gift  of  eyesight  and  observation  failed  him  in  his 
judgments  upon  his  friends.  If  only  you  loved  him, 
you  could  get  your  biggest  failures  of  conduct  some- 

xvii 


R.  H.  D. 

what  more  than  forgiven,  without  any  trouble  at  all. 
And  of  your  mole-hill  virtues  he  made  splendid 
mountains.  He  only  interfered  with  you  when  he 
was  afraid  that  you  were  going  to  hurt  some  one 
else  whom  he  also  loved.  Once  I  had  a  telegram 
from  him  which  urged  me  for  heaven's  sake  not  to 
forget  that  the  next  day  was  my  wife's  birthday. 
Whether  I  had  forgotten  it  or  not  is  my  own  private 
affair.  And  when  I  declared  that  I  had  read  a 
story  which  I  liked  very,  very  much  and  was  going 
to  write  to  the  author  to  tell  him  so,  he  always 
kept  at  me  till  the  letter  was  written. 

Have  I  said  that  he  had  no  habits  ?  Every  day, 
when  he  was  away  from  her,  he  wrote  a  letter  to 
his  mother,  and  no  swift  scrawl  at  that,  for,  no 
matter  how  crowded  and  eventful  the  day,  he  wrote 
her  the  best  letter  that  he  could  write.  That  was 
the  only  habit  he  had.  He  was  a  slave  to  it. 

Once  I  saw  R.  H.  D.  greet  his  old  mother  after 
an  absence.  They  threw  their  arms  about  each 
other  and  rocked  to  and  fro  for  a  long  time.  And  it 
hadn't  been  a  long  absence  at  that.  No  ocean  had 
been  between  them;  her  heart  had  not  been  in  her 
mouth  with  the  thought  that  he  was  under  fire,  or 
about  to  become  a  victim  of  jungle  fever.  He  had 
only  been  away  upon  a  little  expedition,  a  mere 
matter  of  digging  for  buried  treasure.  We  had 
found  the  treasure,  part  of  it  a  chipmunk's  skull 
and  a  broken  arrow-head,  and  R.  H.  D.  had  been 

xviii 


R.  H.  D. 

absent  from  his  mother  for  nearly  two  hours  and 
a  half. 

I  set  about  this  article  with  the  knowledge  that 
I  must  fail  to  give  more  than  a  few  hints  of  what  he 
was  like.  There  isn't  much  more  space  at  my  com 
mand,  and  there  were  so  many  sides  to  him  that  to 
touch  upon  them  all  would  fill  a  volume.  There 
were  the  patriotism  and  the  Americanism,  as  much 
a  part  of  him  as  the  marrow  of  his  bones,  and  from 
which  sprang  all  those  brilliant  headlong  letters  to 
the  newspapers;  those  trenchant  assaults  upon  evil 
doers  in  public  office,  those  quixotic  efforts  to 
redress  wrongs,  and  those  simple  and  dexterous  ex 
posures  of  this  and  that,  from  an  absolutely  unex 
pected  point  of  view.  He  was  a  quickener  of  the 
public  conscience.  That  people  are  beginning  to 
think  tolerantly  of  preparedness,  that  a  nation 
which  at  one  time  looked  yellow  as  a  dandelion  is 
beginning  to  turn  Red,  White,  and  Blue  is  owing 
in  some  measure  to  him. 

R.  H.  D.  thought  that  war  was  unspeakably  ter 
rible.  He  thought  that  peace  at  the  price  which 
our  country  has  been  forced  to  pay  for  it  was  in 
finitely  worse.  And  he  was  one  of  those  who  have 
gradually  taught  this  country  to  see  the  matter  in 
the  same  way. 

I  must  come  to  a  close  now,  and  I  have  hardly 
scratched  the  surface  of  my  subject.  And  that  is  a 
failure  which  I  feel  keenly  but  which  was  inevitable. 

xix 


R.  H.  D. 

As  R.  H.  D.  himself  used  to  say  of  those  deplorable 
"personal  interviews"  which  appear  in  the  news 
papers,  and  in  which  the  important  person  inter 
viewed  is  made  by  the  cub  reporter  to  say  things 
which  he  never  said,  or  thought,  or  dreamed  of — 
"You  can't  expect  a  fifteen-dollar-a-week  brain  to 
describe  a  thousand-dollar-a-week  brain." 

There  is,  however,  one  question  which  I  should 
attempt  to  answer.  No  two  men  are  alike.  In 
what  one  salient  thing  did  R.  H.  D.  differ  from 
other  men — differ  in  his  personal  character  and  in 
the  character  of  his  work  ?  And  that  question  I 
can  answer  offhand,  without  taking  thought,  and 
be  sure  that  I  am  right. 

An  analysis  of  his  works,  a  study  of  that  book 
which  the  Recording  Angel  keeps  will  show  one 
dominant  characteristic  to  which  even  his  brilliancy, 
his  clarity  of  style,  his  excellent  mechanism  as  a 
writer  are  subordinate;  and  to  which,  as  a  man, 
even  his  sense  of  duty,  his  powers  of  affection,  of 
forgiveness,  of  loving-kindness  are  subordinate,  too; 
and  that  characteristic  is  cleanliness. 

The  biggest  force  for  cleanliness  that  was  in  the 
world  has  gone  out  of  the  world — gone  to  that 
Happy  Hunting  Ground  where  "Nobody  hunts  us 
and  there  is  nothing  to  hunt." 

GOUVERNEUR  MORRIS. 


XX 


CONTENTS 

R.  H.  D.  .  Gouverneur  Morris 


PAGR 

THE   RED   CROSS   GIRL I 

THE   GRAND   CROSS   OF   THE   CRESCENT  ...  50 

THE    INVASION   OF    ENGLAND 95 

BLOOD   WILL   TELL .  128 

THE    SAILORMAN 163 

THE   MIND    READER 1 88 

THE    NAKED    MAN 227 

THE   BOY   WHO   CRIED   WOLF 251 

THE   CARD-SHARP 277 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

SHE  CLUTCHED  THE  SAILORMAN  IN  BOTH  HER 
HANDS  AND  KISSED  THE  BESEECHING, 
WORSHIPPING  SMILE Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

THE  DAY  HE  CHOSE  TO  TELL  HER  WAS  THE 

FIRST   DAY   THEY   WERE   AT   SEA      ....        48 

HE    WAS  ...  "A    FRIEND   OF   A    FRIEND   OF   A 

FRIEND" 74 

FORD  FOUND  HIMSELF  LOOKING  INTO  A 
REVOLVER  OF  THE  LARGEST  CALIBRE 
ISSUED  BY  A  CIVILIZED  PEOPLE  .  .  .  .  Il8 

IN    FRONT    OF    DAVID'S    NOSE    HE    SHOOK    A 

FIST  AS   LARGE  AS  A   CATCHER'S  GLOVE    .      144 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

WHEN  Spencer  Flagg  laid  the  foundation- 
stone  for  the  new  million-dollar  wing  he  was 
adding  to  the  Flagg  Home  for  Convalescents, 
on  the  hills  above  Greenwich,  the  New  York 
Republic  sent  Sam  Ward  to  cover  the  story, 
and  with  him  Redding  to  take  photographs.  It 
was  a  crisp,  beautiful  day  in  October,  full  of 
sunshine  and  the  joy  of  living,  and  from  the 
great  lawn  in  front  of  the  Home  you  could  see 
half  over  Connecticut  and  across  the  waters 
of  the  Sound  to  Oyster  Bay. 

Upon  Sam  Ward,  however,  the  beauties  of 
Nature  were  wasted.  When,  the  night  pre 
vious,  he  had  been  given  the  assignment  he 
had  sulked,  and  he  was  still  sulking.  Only  a 
year  before  he  had  graduated  into  New  York 
from  a  small  up-state  college  and  a  small  up 
state  newspaper,  but  already  he  was  a  "star" 
man,  and  Hewitt,  the  city  editor,  humored  him. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  story?"  asked 
the  city  editor.  "With  the  speeches  and  lists 
of  names  it  ought  to  run  to  two  columns." 

"Suppose  it  does!"  exclaimed  Ward;  "any- 

i 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

body  can  collect  type-written  speeches  and 
lists  of  names.  That's  a  messenger  boy's  job. 
Where's  there  any  heart-interest  in  a  Wall 
Street  broker  like  Flagg  waving  a  silver  trowel 
and  singing,  'See  what  a  good  boy  am  I !'  and 
a  lot  of  grownup  men  in  pinafores  saying,  'This 
stone  is  well  and  truly  laid.'  Where's  the  story 
in  that?" 

"When  I  was  a  reporter,"  declared  the  city 
editor,  "I  used  to  be  glad  to  get  a  day  in  the 
country." 

"  Because  you'd  never  lived  in  the  country," 
returned  Sam.  "If  you'd  wasted  twenty-six 
years  in  the  backwoods,  as  I  did,  you'd  know 
that  every  minute  you  spend  outside  of  New 
York  you're  robbing  yourself." 

"Of  what?"  demanded  the  city  editor. 
"There's  nothing  to  New  York  except  cement, 
iron  girders,  noise,  and  zinc  garbage  cans.  You 
never  see  the  sun  in  New  York;  you  never  see 
the  moon  unless  you  stand  in  the  middle  of  the 
street  and  bend  backward.  \  We  never  see  flow 
ers  in  New  York  except  on  the  women's  hats. 
We  never  see  the  women  except  in  cages  in  the 
elevators — they  spend  their  lives  shooting  up 
and  down  elevator  shafts  in  department  stores, 
in  apartment  houses,  in  office  buildings.  And 
we  never  see  children  in  New  York  because  the 
janitors  won't  let  the  women  who  live  in  ele- 

2 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

vators  have  children !  Don't  talk  to  me ! 
New  York's  a  Little  Nemo  nightmare.  It's  a 
joke.  It's  an  insult!" 

"How  curious  !"  said  Sam.  "Now  I  see  why 
they  took  you  off  the  street  and  made  you  a 
city  editor.  I  don't  agree  with  anything  you 
say.  Especially  are  you  wrong  about  the 
women.  They  ought  to  be  caged  in  elevators, 
but  they're  not.  Instead,  they  flash  past  you 
in  the  street;  they  shine  upon  you  from  boxes 
in  the  theatre;  they  frown  at  you  from  the 
tops  of  'buses;  they  smile  at  you  from  the 
cushions  of  a  taxi,  across  restaurant  tables  under 
red  candle  shades,  when  you  offer  them  a  seat 
in  the  subway.  They  are  the  only  thing  in 
New  York  that  gives  me  any  trouble." 

The  city  editor  sighed.  "How  young  you 
are !"  he  exclaimed.  "  However,  to-morrow  you 
will  be  free  from  your  only  trouble.  There  will 
be  few  women  at  the  celebration,  and  they  will 
be  interested  only  in  convalescents — and  you 
do  not  look  like  a  convalescent." 

Sam  Ward  sat  at  the  outer  edge  of  the  crowd 
of  overdressed  females  and  overfed  men,  and, 
with  a  sardonic  smile,  listened  to  Flagg  telling 
his  assembled  friends  and  sycophants  how  glad 
he  was  they  were  there  to  see  him  give  away  a 
million  dollars. 

3 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

"Aren't  you  going  to  get  his  speech?"  asked 
Redding,  the  staff  photographer. 

"Get  bis  speech!"  said  Sam.  "They  have 
Pinkertons  all  over  the  grounds  to  see  that  you 
don't  escape  with  less  than  three  copies.  I'm 
waiting  to  hear  the  ritual  they  always  have, 
and  then  I'm  going  to  sprint  for  the  first  train 
back  to  the  centre  of  civilization." 

i( There's  going  to  be  a  fine  lunch,"  said 
Redding,  "and  reporters  are  expected.  I  asked 
the  policeman  if  we  were,  and  he  said  we  were." 

Sam  rose,  shook  his  trousers  into  place,  stuck 
his  stick  under  his  armpit  and  smoothed  his 
yellow  gloves.  He  was  very  thoughtful  of  his 
clothes  and  always  treated  them  with  courtesy. 

"You  can  have  my  share,"  he  said.  "I  can 
not  forget  that  I  am  fifty-five  minutes  from 
Broadway.  And  even  if  I  were  starving  I 
would  rather  have  a  club  sandwich  in  New 
York  than  a  Thanksgiving  turkey  dinner  in 
New  Rochelle." 

He  nodded  and  with  eager,  athletic  strides 
started  toward  the  iron  gates;  but  he  did  not 
reach  the  iron  gates,  for  on  the  instant  trouble 
barred  his  way.  Trouble  came  to  him  wearing 
the  blue  cambric  uniform  of  a  nursing  sister, 
with  a  red  cross  on  her  arm,  with  a  white  collar 
turned  down,  white  cuffs  turned  back,  and  a 
tiny  black  velvet  bonnet.  A  bow  of  white 

4 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

lawn  chucked  her  impudently  under  the  chin. 
She  had  hair  like  golden-rod  and  eyes  as  blue  as 
flax,  and  a  complexion  of  such  health  and 
cleanliness  and  dewiness  as  blooms  only  on 
trained  nurses. 

She  was  so  lovely  that  Redding  swung  his 
hooded  camera  at  her  as  swiftly  as  a  cowboy 
could  have  covered  her  with  his  gun. 

Reporters  become  star  reporters  because  they 
observe  things  that  other  people  miss  and  be 
cause  they  do  not  let  it  appear  that  they  have 
observed  them.  When  the  great  man  who  is 
being  interviewed  blurts  out  that  which  is 
indiscreet  but  most  important,  the  cub  reporter 
says:  "That's  most  interesting,  sir.  I'll  make 
a  note  of  that."  And  so  warns  the  great  man 
into  silence.  But  the  star  reporter  receives  the 
indiscreet  utterance  as  though  it  bored  him; 
and  the  great  man  does  not  know  he  has  blun 
dered  until  he  reads  of  it  the  next  morning  under 
screaming  headlines. 

Other  men,  on  being  suddenly  confronted  by 
Sister  Anne,  which  was  the  official  title  of  the 
nursing  sister,  would  have  fallen  backward,  or 
swooned,  or  gazed  at  her  with  soulful,  worship 
ping  eyes;  or,  were  they  that  sort  of  beast, 
would  have  ogled  her  with  impertinent  ap 
proval.  Now  Sam,  because  he  was  a  star  re 
porter,  observed  that  the  lady  before  him  was 

5 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

the  most  beautiful  young  woman  he  had  ever 
seen;  but  no  one  would  have  guessed  that  he 
observed  that — least  of  all  Sister  Anne.  He 
stood  in  her  way  and  lifted  his  hat,  and  even 
looked  into  the  eyes  of  blue  as  impersonally 
and  as  calmly  as  though  she  were  his  great- 
aunt — as  though  his  heart  was  not  beating  so 
fast  that  it  choked  him. 

"I  am  from  the  Republic,"  he  said.  "Every 
body  is  so  busy  here  to-day  that  I'm  not  able 
to  get  what  I  need  about  the  Home.  It  seems 
a  pity,"  he  added  disappointedly,  "because  it's 
so  well  done  that  people  ought  to  know  about 
it."  He  frowned  at  the  big  hospital  buildings. 
It  was  apparent  that  the  ignorance  of  the  pub 
lic  concerning  their  excellence  greatly  annoyed 
him. 

When  again  he  looked  at  Sister  Anne  she  was 
regarding  him  in  alarm — obviously  she  was 
upon  the  point  of  instant  flight. 

uYou  are  a  reporter?"  she  said. 

Some  people  like  to  place  themselves  in  the 

hands  of  a  reporter  because  they  hope  he  will 

print  their  names  in  black  letters;  a  few  others 

—only  reporters  know  how  few — would  as  soon 

place  themselves  in  the  hands  of  a  dentist. 

"A  reporter  from  the  Republic,"  repeated 
Sam. 

"But  why  ask  me?"  demanded  Sister  Anne. 

6 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

Sam  could  see  no  reason  for  her  question;  in 
extenuation  and  explanation  he  glanced  at  her 
uniform. 

"I  thought  you  were  at  work  here,"  he  said 
simply.  "I  beg  your  pardon." 

He  stepped  aside  as  though  he  meant  to  leave 
her.  In  giving  that  impression  he  was  dis 
tinctly  dishonest. 

"There  was  no  other  reason,"  persisted  Sister 
Anne.  "I  mean  for  speaking  to  me?" 

The  reason  for  speaking  to  her  was  so  obvious 
that  Sam  wondered  whether  this  could  be  the 
height  of  innocence  or  the  most  banal  coquetry. 
The  hostile  look  in  the  eyes  of  the  lady  proved 
it  could  not  be  coquetry. 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Sam.  "I  mistook  you 
for  one  of  the  nurses  here;  and,  as  you  didn't 
seem  busy,  I  thought  you  might  give  me  some 
statistics  about  the  Home — not  really  statistics, 
you  know,  but  local  color." 

Sister  Anne  returned  his  look  with  one  as 
steady  as  his  own.  Apparently  she  was  weigh 
ing  his  statement.  She  seemed  to  disbelieve  it. 
Inwardly  he  was  asking  himself  what  could  be 
the  dark  secret  in  the  past  of  this  young  woman 
that  at  the  mere  approach  of  a  reporter — even 
of  such  a  nice-looking  reporter  as  himself — she 
should  shake  and  shudder. 

"If  that's  what  you  really  want  to  know," 

7 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

said  Sister  Anne  doubtfully,  "I'll  try  and  help 
you;  but,"  she  added,  looking  at  him  as  one 
who  issues  an  ultimatum,  "you  must  not  say 
anything  about  me!9' 

Sam  knew  that  a  woman  of  the  self-advertis 
ing,  club-organizing  class  will  always  say  that 
to  a  reporter  at  the  time  she  gives  him  her  card 
so  that  he  can  spell  her  name  correctly;  but 
Sam  recognized  that  this  young  woman  meant 
it.  Besides,  what  was  there  that  he  could  write 
about  her?  Much  as  he  might  like  to  do  so, 
he  could  not  begin  his  story  with:  "The  Flagg 
Home  for  Convalescents  is  also  the  home  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  all  living  women."  No  copy 
editor  would  let  that  get  by  him.  So,  as  there 
was  nothing  to  say  that  he  would  be  allowed 
to  say,  he  promised  to  say  nothing.  Sister 
Anne  smiled;  and  it  seemed  to  Sam  that  she 
smiled,  not  because  his  promise  had  set  her 
mind  at  ease,  but  because  the  promise  amused 
her.  Sam  wondered  why. 

Sister  Anne  fell  into  step  beside  him  and  led 
him  through  the  wards  of  the  hospital.  He 
found  that  it  existed  for  and  revolved  entirely 
about  one  person.  He  found  that  a  million 
dollars  and  some  acres  of  buildings,  containing 
sun-rooms  and  hundreds  of  rigid  white  beds, 
had  been  donated  by  Spencer  Flagg  only  to 
provide  a  background  for  Sister  Anne — only 

8 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

to  exhibit  the  depth  of  her  charity,  the  kind 
ness  of  her  heart,  the  unselfishness  of  her 
nature. 

"Do  you  really  scrub  the  floors?"  he  de 
manded — "I  mean  you  yourself — down  on  your 
knees,  with  a  pail  and  water  and  scrubbing 
brush?" 

Sister  Anne  raised  her  beautiful  eyebrows 
and  laughed  at  him. 

"We  do  that  when  we  first  come  here,"  she 
said — "when  we  are  probationers.  Is  there  a 
newer  way  of  scrubbing  floors?" 

"And  these  awful  patients,"  demanded  Sam 
— "do  you  wait  on  them?  Do  you  have  to 
submit  to  their  complaints  and  whinings  and 
ingratitude?"  He  glared  at  the  unhappy  con 
valescents  as  though  by  that  glance  he  would 
annihilate  them.  "It's  not  fair!"  exclaimed 
Sam.  "It's  ridiculous.  .I'd  like  to  choke 
them!" 

"That's  not  exactly  the  object  of  a  home  for 
convalescents,"  said  Sister  Anne. 

"You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean," 
said  Sam.  "Here  are  you — if  you'll  allow  me 
to  say  so — a  magnificent,  splendid,  healthy 
young  person,  wearing  out  your  young  life  over 
a  lot  of  lame  ducks,  failures,  and  cripples." 

"Nor  is  that  quite  the  way  we  look  at  it," 
said  Sister  Anne. 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

"We?"  demanded  Sam. 

Sister  Anne  nodded  toward  a  group  of  nurses. 

"I'm  not  the  only  nurse  here,"  she  said. 
" There  are  over  forty." 

"You  are  the  only  one  here,"  said  Sam,  "who 
is  not !  That's  just  what  I  mean — I  appreciate 
the  work  of  a  trained  nurse;  I  understand  the 
ministering  angel  part  of  it;  but  you — I'm  not 
talking  about  anybody  else;  I'm  talking  about 
you — you  are  too  young!  Somehow  you  are 
different;  you  are  not  meant  to  wear  yourself 
out  fighting  disease  and  sickness,  measuring 
beef  broth  and  making  beds." 

Sister  Anne  laughed  with  delight. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Sam  stiffly. 

"No — pardon  me,"  said  Sister  Anne;  "but 
your  ideas  of  the  duties  of  a  nurse  are  so 
quaint." 

"No  matter  what  the  duties  are,"  declared 
Sam;  "you  should  not  be  here !" 

Sister  Anne  shrugged  her  shoulders;  they 
were  charming  shoulders — as  delicate  as  the 
pinions  of  a  bird. 

"One  must  live,"  said  Sister  Anne. 

They  had  passed  through  the  last  cold  corri 
dor,  between  the  last  rows  of  rigid  white  cots, 
and  had  come  out  into  the  sunshine.  Below 
them  stretched  Connecticut,  painted  in  autumn 
colors.  Sister  Anne  seated  herself  upon  the 

10 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

marble  railing  of  the  terrace  and  looked  down 
upon  the  flashing  waters  of  the  Sound. 

"Yes;  that's  it,"  she  repeated  softly — "one 
must  live." 

Sam  looked  at  her — but,  finding  that  to  do 
so  made  speech  difficult,  looked  hurriedly  away. 
He  admitted  to  himself  that  it  was  one  of  those 
occasions,  only  too  frequent  with  him,  when 
his  indignant  sympathy  was  heightened  by  the 
fact  that  "the  woman  was  very  fair."  He  con 
ceded  that.  He  was  not  going  to  pretend  to 
himself  that  he  was  not  prejudiced  by  the  out 
rageous  beauty  of  Sister  Anne,  by  the  assault 
upon  his  feelings  made  by  her  uniform — made 
by  the  appeal  of  her  profession,  the  gentlest  and 
most  gracious  of  all  professions.  He  was  hon 
estly  disturbed  that  this  young  girl  should 
devote  her  life  to  the  service  of  selfish  sick 
people. 

"If  you  do  it  because  you  must  live,  then  it 
can  easily  be  arranged;  for  there  are  other  ways 
of  earning  a  living." 

The  girl  looked  at  him  quickly,  but  he  was 
quite  sincere — and  again  she  smiled. 

"Now  what  would  you  suggest?"  she  asked. 
"You  see,"  she  said,  "I  have  no  one  to  advise 
me — no  man  of  my  own  age.  I  have  no  broth 
ers  to  go  to.  I  have  a  father,  but  it  was  his 
idea  that  I  should  come  here;  and  so  I  doubt  if 

ii 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

he  would  approve  of  my  changing  to  any  other 
work.  Your  own  work  must  make  you  ac 
quainted  with  many  women  who  earn  their 
own  living.  Maybe  you  could  advise  me?" 

Sam  did  not  at  once  answer.  He  was  calcu 
lating  hastily  how  far  his  salary  would  go 
toward  supporting  a  wife.  He  was  trying  to 
remember  which  of  the  men  in  the  office  were 
married,  and  whether  they  were  those  whose 
salaries  were  smaller  than  his  own.  Collins, 
one  of  the  copy  editors,  he  knew,  was  very  ill- 
paid;  but  Sam  also  knew  that  Collins  was  mar 
ried,  because  his  wife  used  to  wait  for  him  in 
the  office  to  take  her  to  the  theatre,  and  often 
Sam  had  thought  she  was  extremely  well 
dressed.  Of  course  Sister  Anne  was  so  beau 
tiful  that  what  she  might  wear  would  be  a 
matter  of  indifference;  but  then  women  did 
not  always  look  at  it  that  way.  Sam  was  so 
long  considering  offering  Sister  Anne  a  life 
position  that  his  silence  had  become  significant; 
and  to  cover  his  real  thoughts  he  said  hurriedly: 

"Take  type-writing,  for  instance.  That  pays 
very  well.  The  hours  are  not  difficult." 

"And  manicuring?"  suggested  Sister  Anne. 

Sam  exclaimed  in  horror. 

"You  !"  he  cried  roughly.  "For  you  !  Quite 
impossible !" 

"Why  for  me?"  said  the  girl. 

12 


THE   RED  CROSS  GIRL 

In  the  distress  at  the  thought  Sam  was  jab 
bing  his  stick  into  the  gravel  walk  as  though 
driving  the  manicuring  idea  into  a  deep  grave. 
He  did  not  see  that  the  girl  was  smiling  at  him 
mockingly. 

"You?"  protested  Sam.  "You  in  a  barber's 
shop  washing  men's  fingers  who  are  not  fit  to 
wash  the  streets  you  walk  on!  Good  Lord!" 
His  vehemence  was  quite  honest.  The  girl 
ceased  smiling.  Sam  was  still  jabbing  at  the 
gravel  walk,  his  profile  toward  her — and,  un 
observed,  she  could  study  his  face.  It  was  an 
attractive  face — strong,  clever,  almost  illegally 
good-looking.  It  explained  why,  as  he  had 
complained  to  the  city  editor,  his  chief  trouble 
in  New  York  was  with  the  women.  With  his 
eyes  full  of  concern,  Sam  turned  to  her  abruptly. 

"How  much  do  they  give  you  a  month?" 

"  Forty  dollars,"  answered  Sister  Anne. 

"This  is  what  hurts  me  about  it,"  said  Sam. 
"It  is  that  you  should  have  to  work  and  wait 
on  other  people  when  there  are  so  many  strong, 
hulking  men  who  would  count  it  God's  blessing 
to  work  for  you,  to  wait  on  you,  and  give  their 
lives  for  you.  However,  probably  you  know 
that  better  than  I  do." 

"No;  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Sister  Anne. 

Sam  recognized  that  it  was  quite  absurd  that 
ft  should  be  so,  but  this  statement  gave  him  a 

13 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

sense  of  great  elation,  a  delightful  thrill  of 
relief.  There  was  every  reason  why  the  girl 
should  not  confide  in  a  complete  stranger — even 
to  deceive  him  was  quite  within  her  rights;  but, 
though  Sam  appreciated  this,  he  preferred  to 
be  deceived. 

"I  think  you  are  working  too  hard,"  he  said, 
smiling  happily — "I  think  you  ought  to  have  a 
change.  You  ought  to  take  a  day  off!  Do 
they  ever  give  you  a  day  off?" 

"Next  Saturday,"  said  Sister  Anne.    "Why  ?  " 

"Because,"  explained  Sam,  "if  you  won't 
think  it  too  presumptuous,  I  was  going  to  pre 
scribe  a  day  off  for  you — a  day  entirely  away 
from  iodoform  and  white  enamelled  cots.  It  is 
what  you  need,  a  day  in  the  city  and  a  lunch 
where  they  have  music;  and  a  matinee,  where 
you  can  laugh — or  cry,  if  you  like  that  better — 
and  then,  maybe,  some  fresh  air  in  the  park 
in  a  taxi;  and  after  that  dinner  and  more  theatre 
— and  then  I'll  see  you  safe  on  the  train  for 
Greenwich.  Before  you  answer,"  he  added 
hurriedly,  "I  want  to  explain  that  I  contem 
plate  taking  a  day  off  myself  and  doing  all  these 
things  with  you — and  that  if  you  want  to  bring 
any  of  the  other  forty  nurses  along  as  a  chap 
eron,  I  hope  you  will.  Only,  honestly,  I  hope 
you  won't!" 

The  proposal  apparently  gave  Sister  Anne 

14 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

much  pleasure.  She  did  not  say  so,  but  her 
eyes  shone  and  when  she  looked  at  Sam  she 
was  almost  laughing  with  happiness. 

"I  think  that  would  be  quite  delightful,"  said 
Sister  Anne — "quite  delightful !  Only  it  would 
be  frightfully  expensive;  even  if  I  don't  bring 
another  girl,  which  I  certainly  would  not,  it 
would  cost  a  great  deal  of  money.  I  think  we 
might  cut  out  the  taxicab — and  walk  in  the 
park  and  feed  the  squirrels." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Sam  in  disappointment — 
"then  you  know  Central  Park?" 

Sister  Anne's  eyes  grew  quite  expressionless. 

"I  once  lived  near  there,"  she  said. 

"In  Harlem?" 

"Not  exactly  in  Harlem,  but  near  it.  I  was 
quite  young,"  said  Sister  Anne.  "Since  then 
I  have  always  lived  in  the  country  or  in — other 
places." 

Sam's  heart  was  singing  with  pleasure. 

"It's  so  kind  of  you  to  consent,"  he  cried. 
"Indeed,  you  are  the  kindest  person  in  all  the 
world.  I  thought  so  when  I  saw  you  bending 
over  these  sick  people,  and  now  I  know." 

"It  is  you  who  are  kind,"  protested  Sister 
Anne,  "to  take  pity  on  me." 

"Pity  on  you!"  laughed  Sam.  "You  can't 
pity  a  person  who  can  do  more  with  a  smile 
than  old  man  Flagg  can  do  with  all  his  millions. 

15 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

Now,"    he   demanded    in    happy    anticipation, 
"where  are  we  to  meet?" 

"That's  it,"  said  Sister  Anne.  "Where  are 
we  to  meet?" 

"Let  it  be  at  the  Grand  Central  Station. 
The  day  can't  begin  too  soon,"  said  Sam;  "and 
before  then  telephone  me  what  theatre  and 
restaurants  you  want  and  I'll  reserve  seats 
and  tables.  Oh,"  exclaimed  Sam  joyfully,  "it 
will  be  a  wonderful  day — a  wonderful  day !" 

Sister  Anne  looked  at  him  curiously  and,  so 
it  seemed,  a  little  wistfully.  She  held  out  her 
hand. 

"I  must  go  back  to  my  duties,"  she  said. 
"Good-by." 

"Not  good-by,"  said  Sam  heartily — "only 
until  Saturday — and  my  name's  Sam  Ward  and 
my  address  is  the  city  room  of  the  Republic. 
What's  your  name?" 

"Sister  Anne,"  said  the  girl.  "In  the  nurs 
ing  order  to  which  I  belong  we  have  no  last 
names." 

"So,"  asked  Sam,  "I'll  call  you  Sister  Anne?" 

"No;  just  Sister,"  said  the  girl. 

"Sister !"  repeated  Sam— "Sister !"  He 
breathed  the  word  rather  than  spoke  it;  and  the 
way  he  said  it  and  the  way  he  looked  when  he 
said  it  made  it  carry  almost  the  touch  of  a 
caress.  It  was  as  if  he  had  said  "Sweetheart !" 
or  "Beloved!"  "I'll  not  forget,"  said  Sam. 

16 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

Sister  Anne  gave  an  impatient,  annoyed 
laugh. 

"Nor  I,"  she  said. 

Sam  returned  to  New  York  in  the  smoking- 
car,  puffing  feverishly  at  his  cigar  and  glaring 
dreamily  at  the  smoke.  He  was  living  the  day 
over  again  and,  in  anticipation,  the  day  off, 
still  to  come.  He  rehearsed  their  next  meeting 
at  the  station;  he  considered  whether  or  not 
he  would  meet  her  with  a  huge  bunch  of  violets 
or  would  have  it  brought  to  her  when  they 
were  at  luncheon  by  the  head  waiter.  He 
decided  the  latter  way  would  be  more  of  a 
pleasant  surprise.  He  planned  the  luncheon. 
It  was  to  be  the  most  marvellous  repast  he 
could  evolve;  and,  lest  there  should  be  the 
slightest  error,  he  would  have  it  prepared  in  ad 
vance — and  it  should  cost  half  his  week's  salary. 

The  place  where  they  were  to  dine  he  would 
leave  to  her,  because  he  had  observed  that 
women  had  strange  ideas  about  clothes — some 
of  them  thinking  that  certain  clothes  must  go 
with  certain  restaurants.  Some  of  them  seemed 
to  believe  that,  instead  of  their  conferring  dis 
tinction  upon  the  restaurant,  the  restaurant 
conferred  distinction  upon  them.  He  was  sure 
Sister  Anne  would  not  be  so  foolish,  but  it  might 
be  that  she  must  always  wear  her  nurse's  uni 
form  and  that  she  would  prefer  not  to  be  con 
spicuous;  so  he  decided  that  the  choice  of  where 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

they  would  dine  he  would  leave  to  her.  He  cal 
culated  that  the  whole  day  ought  to  cost  about 
eighty  dollars,  which,  as  star  reporter,  was  what 
he  was  then  earning  each  week.  That  was  lit 
tle  enough  to  give  for  a  day  that  would  be  the 
birthday  of  his  life !  No,  he  contradicted — the 
day  he  had  first  met  her  must  always  be  the 
birthday  of  his  life;  for  never  had  he  met  one 
like  her  and  he  was  sure  there  never  would  be 
one  like  her — she  was  so  entirely  superior  to 
all  the  others,  so  fine,  so  difficult — in  her  man 
ner  there  was  something  that  rendered  her  un 
approachable.  Even  her  simple  nurse's  gown 
was  worn  with  a  difference.  She  might  have 
been  a  princess  in  fancy  dress.  And  yet,  how 
humble  she  had  been  when  he  begged  her  to 
let  him  for  one  day  personally  conduct  her  over 
the  great  city !  "You  are  so  kind  to  take  pity 
on  me,"  she  had  said.  He  thought  of  many 
clever,  pretty  speeches  he  might  have  made. 
He  was  so  annoyed  he  had  not  thought  of  them 
at  the  time  that  he  kicked  violently  at  the  seat 
in  front  of  him. 

He  wondered  what  her  history  might  be;  he 
was  sure  it  was  full  of  beautiful  courage  and 
self-sacrifice.  It  certainly  was  outrageous  that 
one  so  glorious  must  work  for  her  living,  and 
for  such  a  paltry  living — forty  dollars  a  month ! 
It  was  worth  that  merely  to  have  her  sit  in  the 

18 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

flat  where  one  could  look  at  her;  for  already  he 
had  decided  that,  when  they  were  married,  they 
would  live  in  a  flat — probably  in  one  overlook 
ing  Central  Park,  on  Central  Park  West.  He 
knew  of  several  attractive  suites  there  at  thirty- 
five  dollars  a  week — or,  if  she  preferred  the  sub 
urbs,  he  would  forsake  his  beloved  New  York 
and  return  to  the  country.  In  his  gratitude  to 
her  for  being  what  she  was,  he  conceded  even 
that  sacrifice. 

When  he  reached  New  York,  from  the  specu 
lators  he  bought  front-row  seats  at  five  dollars 
for  the  two  most  popular  plays  in  town.  He 
put  them  away  carefully  in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 
Possession  of  them  made  him  feel  that  already 
he  had  obtained  an  option  on  six  hours  of  com 
plete  happiness. 

After  she  left  Sam,  Sister  Anne  passed  hur 
riedly  through  the  hospital  to  the  matron's 
room  and,  wrapping  herself  in  a  raccoon  coat, 
made  her  way  to  a  waiting  motor  car  and  said, 
"Home!"  to  the  chauffeur.  He  drove  her  to 
the  Flagg  family  vault,  as  Flagg's  envious  mil 
lionaire  neighbors  called  the  pile  of  white  mar 
ble  that  topped  the  highest  hill  above  Green 
wich,  and  which  for  years  had  served  as  a 
landfall  to  mariners  on  the  Sound. 

There  were  a  number  of  people  at  tea  when 
she  arrived  and  they  greeted  her  noisily. 

19 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

"I  have  had  a  most  splendid  adventure!" 
said  Sister  Anne.  "There  were  six  of  us,  you 
know,  dressed  up  as  Red  Cross  nurses,  and  we 
gave  away  programmes.  Well,  one  of  the  New 
York  reporters  thought  I  was  a  real  nurse  and 
interviewed  me  about  the  Home.  Of  course  I 
knew  enough  about  it  to  keep  it  up,  and  I  kept 
it  up  so  well  that  he  was  terribly  sorry  for  me; 
and 

One  of  the  tea  drinkers  was  little  HoIIis  Hoi- 
worthy,  who  prided  himself  on  knowing  who's 
who  in  New  York.  He  had  met  Sam  Ward  at 
first  nights  and  prize  fights.  He  laughed  scorn 
fully. 

"Don't  you  believe  it!"  he  interrupted. 
"That  man  who  was  talking  to  you  was  Sam 
Ward.  He's  the  smartest  newspaper  man  in 
New  York;  he  was  just  leading  you  on.  Do 
you  suppose  there's  a  reporter  in  America  who 
wouldn't  know  you  in  the  dark?  Wait  until 
you  see  the  Sunday  paper." 

Sister  Anne  exclaimed  indignantly. 

"He  did  not  know  me!"  she  protested.  "It 
quite  upset  him  that  I  should  be  wasting  my 
life  measuring  out  medicines  and  making 
beds." 

There  was  a  shriek  of  disbelief  and  laughter. 
"I  told  him,"  continued  Sister  Anne,  "that  I 
got  forty  dollars  a  month,  and  he  said  I  could 

20 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

make  more  as  a  typewriter;  and  I  said  I  pre 
ferred  to  be  a  manicurist." 

"Oh,  Anita!"  protested  the  admiring  chorus. 

"And  he  was  most  indignant.  He  absolutely 
refused  to  allow  me  to  be  a  manicurist.  And 
he  asked  me  to  take  a  day  off  with  him  and 
let  him  show  me  New  York.  And  he  offered, 
as  attractions,  moving-picture  shows  and  a 
drive  on  a  Fifth  Avenue  'bus,  and  feeding  pea 
nuts  to  the  animals  in  the  park.  And  if  I  in 
sisted  upon  a  chaperon  I  might  bring  one  of 
the  nurses.  We're  to  meet  at  the  soda-water 
fountain  in  the  Grand  Central  Station.  He 
said,  '  The  day  cannot  begin  too  soon ! ' ' 

"Oh,  Anita!"  shrieked  the  chorus. 

Lord  Deptford,  who  as  the  newspapers  had 
repeatedly  informed  the  American  public,  had 
come  to  the  Flaggs'  country-place  to  try  to 
marry  Anita  Flagg,  was  amused. 

"What  an  awfully  jolly  rag!"  he  cried. 
"And  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Anita  Flagg.  "The  report 
ers  have  been  making  me  ridiculous  for  the  last 
three  years ;  now  I  have  got  back  at  one  of  them ! 
And,"  she  added,  "that's  all  there  is  to  that!" 

That  night,  however,  when  the  house  party 
was  making  toward  bed,  Sister  Anne  stopped 
by  the  stairs  and  said  to  Lord  Deptford:  "I 
want  to  hear  you  call  me  Sister." 

21 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

"Call  you  what?"  exclaimed  the  young  man. 
"I  will  tell  you,"  he  whispered,  "what  I'd  like 
to  call  you !" 

"You  will  not!"  interrupted  Anita.  "Do  as 
I  tell  you  and  say  Sister  once.  Say  it  as  though 
you  meant  it." 

"But  I  don't  mean  it,"  protested  his  lord 
ship.  "I've  said  already  what  I " 

"Never  mind  what  you've  said  already," 
commanded  Miss  Flagg.  "I've  heard  that 
from  a  lot  of  people.  Say  Sister  just  once." 

His  lordship  frowned  in  embarrassment. 

"Sister!"  he  exclaimed.  It  sounded  like  the 
pop  of  a  cork. 

Anita  Flagg  laughed  unkindly  and  her  beau 
tiful  shoulders  shivered  as  though  she  were  cold. 

"Not  a  bit  like  it,  Deptford,"  she  said. 
"Good-night." 

Later  Helen  Page,  who  came  to  her  room  to 
ask  her  about  a  horse  she  was  to  ride  in  the 
morning,  found  her  ready  for  bed  but  standing 
by  the  open  window  looking  out  toward  the 
great  city  to  the  south. 

When  she  turned  Miss  Page  saw  something  in 
her  eyes  that  caused  that  young  woman  to 
shriek  with  amazement. 

"Anita!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  crying! 
What  in  Heaven's  name  can  make  you  cry?" 

It  was  not  a  kind  speech,  nor  did  Miss  Flagg 
22 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

receive  it  kindly.  She  turned  upon  the  tactless 
intruder. 

"Suppose,"  cried  Anita  fiercely,  "a  man 
thought  you  were  worth  forty  dollars  a  month 
—honestly  didn't  know ! — honestly  believed  you 
were  poor  and  worked  for  your  living,  and  still 
said  your  smile  was  worth  more  than  all  of  old 
man  Flagg's  millions,  not  knowing  they  were 
your  millions.  Suppose  he  didn't  ask  any 
money  of  you,  but  just  to  take  care  of  you,  to 
slave  for  you — only  wanted  to  keep  your  pretty 
hands  from  working,  and  your  pretty  eyes  frcm 
seeing  sickness  and  pain.  Suppose  you  met 
that  man  among  this  rotten  lot,  what  would 
you  do?  What  wouldn't  you  do?" 

"Why,  Anita!"  exclaimed  Miss  Page. 

"What  would  you  do?"  demanded  Anita 
Flagg.  "This  is  what  you'd  do:  You'd  go 
down  on  your  knees  to  that  man  and  say: 
'Take  me  away !  Take  me  away  from  them, 
and  pity  me,  and  be  sorry  for  me,  and  love 
me — and  love  me — and  love  me!" 

"And  why  don't  you?"  cried  Helen  Page. 

"Because  I'm  as  rotten  as  the  rest  of  them !" 
cried  Anita  Flagg.  "Because  I'm  a  coward. 
And  that's  why  I'm  crying.  Haven't  I  the 
right  to  cry?" 


II 


AT  the  exact  moment  Miss  Flagg  was  pro 
claiming  herself  a  moral  coward,  in  the  local 
room  of  the  Republic  Collins,  the  copy  editor, 
was  editing  Sam's  story  of  the  laying  of  the 
corner-stone.  The  copy  editor's  cigar  was  tilted 
near  his  left  eyebrow;  his  blue  pencil,  like  a 
guillotine  ready  to  fall  upon  the  guilty  word  or 
paragraph,  was  suspended  in  mid-air;  and  con 
tinually,  like  a  hawk  preparing  to  strike,  the 
blue  pencil  swooped  and  circled.  But  page 
after  page  fell  softly  to  the  desk  and  the  blue 
pencil  remained  inactive.  As  he  read,  the  voice 
of  Collins  rose  in  muttered  ejaculations;  and, 
as  he  continued  to  read,  these  explosions  grew 
louder  and  more  amazed.  At  last  he  could  en 
dure  no  more  and,  swinging  swiftly  in  his 
revolving  chair,  his  glance  swept  the  office. 
"In  the  name  of  Mike!"  he  shouted.  "What 
is  this?" 

The  reporters  nearest  him,  busy  with  pencil 
and  typewriters,  frowned  in  impatient  protest. 
Sam  Ward,  swinging  his  legs  from  the  top  of  a 
table,  was  gazing  at  the  ceiling,  wrapped  in 
dreams  and  tobacco  smoke.  Upon  his  clever, 

24 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

clean-cut  features  the  expression  was  far-away 
and  beatific.  He  came  back  to  earth. 

"What's  what?"  Sam  demanded. 

At  that  moment  Elliott,  the  managing  editor, 
was  passing  through  the  room,  his  hands  filled 
with  freshly  pulled  proofs.  He  swung  toward 
Collins  quickly  and  snatched  up  Sam's  copy. 
The  story  already  was  late — and  it  was  impor 
tant. 

"What's  wrong?"  he  demanded. 

Over  the  room  there  fell  a  sudden  hush. 

"Read  the  opening  paragraph,"  protested 
Collins.  "It's  like  that  for  a  column!  It's  all 
about  a  girl — about  a  Red  Cross  nurse.  Not  a 
word  about  Flagg  or  Lord  Deptford.  No 
speeches  !  No  news !  It's  not  a  news  story  at 
all.  It's  an  editorial,  and  an  essay,  and  a 
spring  poem.  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  And, 
what's  worse,"  wailed  the  copy  editor  defiantly 
and  to  the  amazement  of  all,  "it's  so  darned 
good  that  you  can't  touch  it.  You've  got  to 
let  it  go  or  kill  it." 

The  eyes  of  the  managing  editor,  masked  by 
his  green  .paper  shade,  were  racing  over  Sam's 
written  words.  He  thrust  the  first  page  back 
at  Collins. 

"Is  it  all  like  that?" 

" There's  a  column  like  that!" 

"Run  it  just  as  it  is,"  commanded  the  man- 
25 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

aging  editor.  "Use  it  for  your  introduction 
and  get  your  story  from  the  flimsy.  And,  in 
your  head,  cut  out  Flagg  entirely.  Call  it 
'The  Red  Cross  Girl.'  And  play  it  up  strong 
with  pictures." 

He  turned  on  Sam  and  eyed  him  curiously. 

"What's  the  idea,  Ward?"  he  said.  "This 
is  a  newspaper — not  a  magazine!" 

The  click  of  the  typewriters  was  silent,  the 
hectic  rush  of  the  pencils  had  ceased,  and  the 
staff,  expectant,  smiled  cynically  upon  the  star 
reporter.  Sam  shoved  his  hands  into  his  trou 
sers  pockets  and  also  smiled,  but  unhappily. 

"I  know  it's  not  news,  sir,"  he  said;  but  that's 
the  way  I  saw  the  story — outside  on  the  lawn, 
the  band  playing,  and  the  governor  and  the 
governor's  staff  and  the  clergy  burning  incense 
to  Flagg;  and  inside,  this  girl  right  on  the  job — 
taking  care  of  the  sick  and  wounded.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  a  million  from  a  man  that 
won't  miss  a  million  didn't  stack  up  against 
what  this  girl  was  doing  for  these  sick  folks ! 
What  I  wanted  to  say,"  continued  Sam  stoutly, 
"was  that  the  moving  spirit  of  the  hospital 
was  not  in  the  man  who  signed  the  checks,  but 
in  these  women  who  do  the  work — the  nurses, 
like  the  one  I  wrote  about;  the  one  you  called 
4 The  Red  Cross  Girl.'" 

Collins,  strong  through  many  years  of  faith- 
26 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

ful  service,   backed   by   the   traditions   of  the 
profession,  snorted  scornfully. 

"But  it's  not  news!" 

"It's  not  news,"  said  Elliott  doubtfully;  "but 
it's  the  kind  of  story  that  made  Frank  O'Malley 
famous.  It's  the  kind  of  story  that  drives  men 
out  of  this  business  into  the  arms  of  what  Kip 
ling  calls  'the  illegitimate  sister." 

It  seldom  is  granted  to  a  man  on  the  same 
day  to  give  his  whole  heart  to  a  girl  and  to  be 
patted  on  the  back  by  his  managing  editor;  and 
it  was  this  combination,  and  not  the  drinks  he 
dispensed  to  the  staff  in  return  for  its  congratu 
lations,  that  sent  Sam  home  walking  on  air. 
He  loved  his  business,  he  was  proud  of  his 
business;  but  never  before  had  it  served  him 
so  well.  It  had  enabled  him  to  tell  the  woman 
he  loved,  and  incidentally  a  million  other  peo 
ple,  how  deeply  he  honored  her;  how  clearly  he 
appreciated  her  power  for  good.  No  one  would 
know  he  meant  Sister  Anne,  save  two  people- 
Sister  Anne  and  himself;  but  for  her  and  for 
him  that  was  as  many  as  should  know.  In  his 
story  he  had  used  real  incidents  of  the  day;  he 
had.  described  her  as  she  passed  through  the 
wards  of  the  hospital,  cheering  and  sympathetic; 
he  had  told  of  the  little  acts  of  consideration 
that  endeared  her  to  the  sick  people. 

The  next  rooming  she  would  know  that  it 
27 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

was  she  of  whom  he  had  written;  and  between 
the  lines  she  would  read  that  the  man  who 
wrote  them  loved  her.  So  he  fell  asleep,  im 
patient  for  the  morning.  In  the  hotel  at 
which  he  lived  the  Republic  was  always  placed 
promptly  outside  his  door;  and,  after  many 
excursions  into  the  hall,  he  at  last  found  it. 
On  the  front  page  was  his  story,  "The  Red 
Cross  Girl."  It  had  the  place  of  honor — right- 
hand  column;  but  more  conspicuous  than  the 
headlines  of  his  own  story  was  one  of  Redding's 
photographs.  It  was  the  one  he  had  taken  of 
Sister  Anne  when  first  she  had  approached  them, 
in  her  uniform  of  mercy,  advancing  across  the 
lawn,  walking  straight  into  the  focus  of  the 
camera.  There  was  no  mistaking  her  for  any 
other  living  woman;  but  beneath  the  picture, 
in  bold,  staring,  uncompromising  type,  was  a 
strange  and  grotesque  legend. 

"Daughter  of  Millionaire  Flagg,"  it  read,  "in 
a  New  Role.  Miss  Anita  Flagg  as  The  Red 
Cross  Girl." 

For  a  long  time  Sam  looked  at  the  picture, 
and  then,  folding  the  paper  so  that  the  picture 
was  hidden,  he  walked  to  the  open  window. 
From  below,  Broadway  sent  up  a  tumultuous 
greeting — cable  cars  jangled,  taxis  hooted;  and 
on  the  sidewalks,  on  their  way  to  work,  pro 
cessions  of  shop-girls  stepped  out  briskly.  It 

28 


THE   RED  CROSS  GIRL 

was  the  street  and  the  city  and  the  life  he  had 
found  fascinating,  but  now  it  jarred  and  af 
fronted  him.  A  girl  he  knew  had  died,  had 
passed  out  of  his  life  forever — worse  than  that, 
had  never  existed;  and  yet  the  city  went  on 
just  as  though  that  made  no  difference,  or  just 
as  little  difference  as  it  would  have  made  had 
Sister  Anne  really  lived  and  really  died. 

At  the  same  early  hour,  an  hour  far  too  early 
for  the  rest  of  the  house  party,  Anita  Flagg  and 
Helen  Page,  booted  and  riding-habited,  sat 
alone  at  the  breakfast  table,  their  tea  before 
them;  and  in  the  hands  of  Anita  Flagg  was 
the  Daily  Republic.  Miss  Page  had  brought 
the  paper  to  the  table  and,  with  affected  indig 
nation  at  the  impertinence  of  the  press,  had 
pointed  at  the  front-page  photograph;  but  Miss 
Flagg  was  not  looking  at  the  photograph,  or 
drinking  her  tea,  or  showing  in  her  immediate 
surroundings  any  interest  whatsoever.  Instead, 
her  lovely  eyes  were  fastened  with  fascination 
upon  the  column  under  the  heading  "The  Red 
Cross  Girl";  and,  as  she  read,  the  lovely  eyes 
lost  all  trace  of  recent  slumber,  her  lovely  lips 
parted  breathlessly,  and  on  her  lovely  cheeks 
the  color  flowed  and  faded  and  glowed  and 
bloomed.  When  she  had  read  as  far  as  a  para 
graph  beginning,  "When  Sister  Anne  walked 
between  them  those  who  suffered  raised  their 

29 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

eyes  to  hers  as  flowers  lift  their  faces  to  the 
rain,"  she  dropped  the  paper  and  started  for 
the  telephone. 

"Any  man,"  cried  she,  to  the  mutual  discom 
fort  of  Helen  Page  and  the  servants,  "who 
thinks  I'm  like  that  mustn't  get  away!  I'm 
not  like  that  and  I  know  it;  but  if  he  thinks  so 
that's  all  I  want.  And  maybe  I  might  be  like 
that — if  any  man  would  help." 

She  gave  her  attention  to  the  telephone  and 
"Information."  She  demanded  to  be  instantly 
put  into  communication  with  the  Daily  Republic 
and  Mr.  Sam  Ward.  She  turned  again  upon 
Helen  Page. 

"I'm  tired  of  being  called  a  good  sport,"  she 
protested,  "by  men  who  aren't  half  so  good 
sports  as  I  am.  I'm  tired  of  being  talked  to 
about  money — as  though  I  were  a  stock-broker. 
This  man's  got  a  head  on  his  shoulders,  and 
he's  got  the  shoulders  too;  and  he's  got  a  darned 
good-looking  head;  and  he  thinks  I'm  a  minis 
tering  angel  and  a  saint;  and  he  put  me  up  on 
a  pedestal  and  made  me  dizzy — and  I  like  being 
made  dizzy;  and  I'm  for  him !  And  I'm  going 
after  him!" 

"Be  still!"  implored  Helen  Page.  "Any  one 
might  think  you  meant  it!"  She  nodded  vio 
lently  at  the  discreet  backs  of  the  men-servants. 

"Ye  gods,  Parker!"  cried  Anita  Flagg. 
30 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

"Does  it  take  three  of  you  to  pour  a  cup  of 
tea?  Get  out  of  here,  and  tell  everybody  that 
you  all  three  caught  me  in  the  act  of  proposing 
to  an  American  gentleman  over  the  telephone 
and  that  the  betting  is  even  that  I'll  make 
him  marry  me!" 

The  faithful  and  sorely  tried  domestics  fled 
toward  the  door. 

"And  what's  more,"  Anita  hurled  after 
them,  "get  your  bets  down  quick,  for  after 
I  meet  him  the  odds  will  be  a  hundred  to 
one!" 

Had  the  Republic  been  an  afternoon  paper, 
Sam  might  have  been  at  the  office  and  might 
have  gone  to  the  telephone,  and  things  might 
have  happened  differently;  but,  as  the  Republic 
was  a  morning  paper,  the  only  person  in  the 
office  was  the  lady  who  scrubbed  the  floors  and 
she  refused  to  go  near  the  telephone.  So  Anita 
Flagg  said,  "I'll  call  him  up  later,"  and  went 
happily  on  her  ride,  with  her  heart  warm  with 
love  for  all  the  beautiful  world;  but  later  it 
was  too  late. 

To  keep  himself  fit,  Sam  Ward  always  walked 
to  the  office.  On  this  particular  morning  HoIIis 
Holworthy  was  walking  uptown  and  they  met 
opposite  the  cathedral. 

"  You're  the  very  man  I  want,"  said  Hoi- 
worthy  joyously — "you've  got  to  decide  a  bet." 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

He  turned  and  fell  into  step  with  Sam. 

/'It's  one  I  made  last  night  with  Nita  Flagg. 
She  thinks  you  didn't  know  who  she  was  yes 
terday,  and  I  said  that  was  ridiculous.  Of 
course  you  knew.  I  bet  her  a  theatre  party." 

To  Sam  it  seemed  hardly  fair  that  so  soon, 
before  his  fresh  wound  had  even  been  dressed, 
it  should  be  torn  open  by  impertinent  fingers; 
but  he  had  no  right  to  take  offense.  How  could 
the  man,  or  any  one  else,  know  what  Sister 
Anne  had  meant  to  him? 

"I'm  afraid  you  lose,"  he  said.  He  halted 
to  give  Holworthy  the  hint  to  leave  him,  but 
Holworthy  had  no  such  intention. 

"You  don't  say  so!"  exclaimed  that  young 
man.  "Fancy  one  of  you  chaps  being  taken 
in  like  that!  I  thought  you  were  taking  her 
in — getting  up  a  story  for  the  Sunday  supple 


ment! 


Sam  shook  his  head,  nodded,  and  again 
moved  on;  but  he  was  not  yet  to  escape. 

"And,  instead  of  your  fooling  her,"  exclaimed 
Holworthy  incredulously,  "she  was  having  fun 
with  you !" 

With  difficulty  Sam  smiled. 

"So  it  would  seem,"  he  said. 

"She  certainly  made  an  awfully  funny  story 
of  it!"  exclaimed  Holworthy  admiringly.  "I 
thought  she  was  making  it  up — she  must  have 

32 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

made  some  of  it  up.  She  said  you  asked  her 
to  take  a  day  off  in  New  York.  That  isn't  so, 
is  it?" 

"Yes,  that's  so." 

"By  Jove!"  cried  Holworthy — "and  that 
you  invited  her  to  see  the  moving-picture 
shows?" 

Sam,  conscious  of  the  dearly  bought  front- 
row  seats  in  his  pocket,  smiled  pleasantly. 

"Did  she  say  I  said  that — or  you?"  he  asked. 

"She  did." 

"Well,  then,  I  must  have  said  it." 

Holworthy  roared  with  amusement. 

"And  that  you  invited  her  to  feed  peanuts 
to  the  monkeys  at  the  Zoo?" 

Sam  avoided  the  little  man's  prying  eyes. 

"Yes;  I  said  that  too." 

"And  I  thought  she  was  making  it  up!"  ex 
claimed  Holworthy.  "We  did  laugh!  You 
must  see  the  fun  of  it  yourself." 

Lest  Sam  should  fail  to  do  so  he  proceeded 
to  elaborate. 

"You  must  see  the  fun  in  a  man  trying  to 
make  a  date  with  Anita  Flagg — just  as  if  she 
were  nobody !" 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Sam,  "that  was  my 
idea."  He  waved  his  stick  at  a  passing  taxi. 
"I'm  late,"  he  said.  He  abandoned  HoIIis  on 
the  sidewalk,  chuckling  and  grinning  with  de- 

33 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

light,  and  unconscious  of  the  mischief  he  had 
made. 

An  hour  later  at  the  office,  when  Sam  was 
waiting  for  an  assignment,  the  telephone  boy 
hurried  to  him,  his  eyes  lit  with  excitement. 

"  You're  wanted  on  the  'phone/'  he  com 
manded.  His  voice  dropped  to  an  awed  whis 
per.  "Miss  Anita  Flagg  wants  to  speak  to 
you!" 

The  blood  ran  leaping  to  Sam's  heart  and 
face.  Then  he  remembered  that  this  was  not 
Sister  Anne  who  wanted  to  speak  to  him,  but  a 
woman  he  had  never  met. 

"Say  you  can't  find  me,"  he  directed. 

The  boy  gasped,  fled,  and  returned  precipi 
tately. 

"The  lady  says  she  wants  your  telephone 
number — says  she  must  have  it." 

"Tell  her  you  don't  know  it;  tell  her  it's 
against  the  rules — and  hang  up." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  telephone  boy,  in  the 
strictest  confidence,  had  informed  every  mem 
ber  of  the  local  staff  that  Anita  Flagg — the 
rich,  the  beautiful,  the  daring,  the  original  of 
the  Red  Cross  story  of  that  morning — had 
twice  called  up  Sam  Ward  and  by  that  young 
man  had  been  thrown  down — and  thrown  hard ! 

That  night  Elliott,  the  managing  editor,  sent 
for  Sam;  and  when  Sam  entered  his  office  he 

34 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

found  also  there  Walsh,  the  foreign  editor,  with 
whom  he  was  acquainted  only  by  sight. 

Elliott  introduced  them  and  told  Sam  to  be 
seated. 

"Ward,"  he  began  abruptly,  "I'm  sorry  to 
lose  you,  but  you've  got  to  go.  It's  on  account 
of  that  story  of  this  morning." 

Sam  made  no  sign,  but  he  was  deeply  hurt. 
From  a  paper  he  had  served  so  loyally  this 
seemed  scurvy  treatment.  It  struck  him  also 
that,  considering  the  spirit  in  which  the  story 
had  been  written,  it  was  causing  him  more 
kinds  of  trouble  than  was  quite  fair.  The  loss 
of  position  did  not  disturb  him.  In  the  last 
month  too  many  managing  editors  had  tried 
to  steal  him  from  the  Republic  for  him  to  feel 
anxious  as  to  the  future.  So  he  accepted  his 
dismissal  calmly,  and  could  say  without  resent 
ment:  "Last  night  I  thought  you  liked  the 
story,  sir?" 

"I  did,"  returned  Elliott;  "I  liked  it  so  much 
that  I'm  sending  you  to  a  bigger  place,  where 
you  can  get  bigger  stories.  We  want  you  to 
act  as  our  special  correspondent  in  London. 
Mr.  Walsh  will  explain  the  work;  and  if  you'll 
go  you'll  sail  next  Wednesday." 

After  his  talk  with  the  foreign  editor  Sam 
again  walked  home  on  air.  He  could  not  be 
lieve  it  was  real — that  it  was  actually  to  him 

35 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

it  had  happened;  for  hereafter  he  was  to  wit 
ness  the  march  of  great  events,  to  come  in  con 
tact  with  men  of  international  interests.  In 
stead  of  reporting  what  was  of  concern  only 
from  the  Battery  to  Forty-seventh  Street,  he 
would  now  tell  New  York  what  was  of  interest 
in  Europe  and  the  British  Empire,  and  so  to 
the  whole  world.  There  was  one  drawback 
only  to  his  happiness — there  was  no  one  with 
whom  he  might  divide  it.  He  wanted  to  cele 
brate  his  good  fortune;  he  wanted  to  share  it 
with  some  one  who  would  understand  how 
much  it  meant  to  him,  who  would  really  care. 
Had  Sister  Anne  lived,  she  would  have  under 
stood;  and  he  would  have  laid  himself  and  his 
new  position  at  her  feet  and  begged  her  to 
accept  them — begged  her  to  run  away  with 
him  to  this  tremendous  and  terrifying  capital 
of  the  world,  and  start  the  new  life  together. 

Among  all  the  women  he  knew,  there  was 
none  to  take  her  place.  Certainly  Anita  Flagg 
could  not  take  her  place.  Not  because  she 
was  rich,  not  because  she  had  jeered  at  him 
and  made  him  a  laughing-stock,  not  because 
his  admiration — and  he  blushed  when  he  re 
membered  how  openly,  how  ingenuously  he  had 
shown  it  to  her — meant  nothing;  but  because 
the  girl  he  thought  she  was,  the  girl  he  had 
made  dreams  about  and  wanted  to  marry  with- 

36 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

out  a  moment's  notice,  would  have  seen  that 
what  he  offered,  ridiculous  as  it  was  when  offered 
to  Anita  Flagg,  was  not  ridiculous  when  offered 
sincerely  to  a  tired,  nerve-worn,  overworked 
nurse  in  a  hospital.  It  was  because  Anita 
Flagg  had  not  seen  that  that  she  could  not  now 
make  up  to  him  for  the  girl  he  had  lost,  even 
though  she  herself  had  inspired  that  girl  and 
for  a  day  given  her  existence. 

Had  he  known  it,  the  Anita  Flagg  of  his 
imagining  was  just  as  unlike  and  as  unfair  to 
the  real  girl  as  it  was  possible  for  two  people 
to  be.  His  Anita  Flagg  he  had  created  out  of 
the  things  he  had  read  of  her  in  impertinent 
Sunday  supplements  and  from  the  impression 
he  had  been  given  of  her  by  the  little  ass,  Hoi- 
worthy.  She  was  not  at  all  like  that.  Ever 
since  she  had  come  of  age  she  had  been  beset 
by  sycophants  and  flatterers,  both  old  and 
young,  both  men  and  girls,  and  by  men  who 
wanted  her  money  and  by  men  who  wanted 
her.  And  it  was  because  she  got  the  motives 
of  the  latter  two  confused  that  she  was  so 
often  hurt  and  said  sharp,  bitter  things  that 
made  her  appear  hard  and  heartless. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  in  approaching  her  in 
the  belief  that  he  was  addressing  an  entirely 
different  person,  Sam  had  got  nearer  to  the 
real  Anita  Flagg  than  had  any  other  man. 

37 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

And  she  knew  it;  but  Sam  did  not  know  it. 
And  so — when  on  arriving  at  the  office  the 
next  morning,  which  was  a  Friday,  he  received 
a  telegram  reading,  "Arriving  to-morrow 
nine-thirty  from  Greenwich;  the  day  cannot 
begin  too  soon;  don't  forget  you  promised  to 
meet  me.  Anita  Flagg" — he  was  able  to  reply: 
"Extremely  sorry;  but  promise  made  to  a  differ 
ent  person,  who  unfortunately  has  since  died!" 

When  Anita  Flagg  read  this  telegram  there 
leaped  to  her  lovely  eyes  tears  that  sprang  from 
self-pity  and  wounded  feelings.  She  turned 
miserably,  appealingly  to  Helen  Page. 

"But  why  does  he  do  it  to  me?"  Her  tone 
was  that  of  the  bewildered  child  who  has  struck 
her  head  against  the  table,  and  from  the  naughty 
table,  without  cause  or  provocation,  has  re 
ceived  the  devil  of  a  bump. 

Before  Miss  Page  could  venture  upon  an  ex 
planation,  Anita  Flagg  had  changed  into  a 
very  angry  young  woman. 

"And  what's  more,"  she  announced,  "he 
can't  do  it  to  me!" 

She  sent  her  telegram  back  again  as  it  was, 
word  for  word,  but  this  time  it  was  signed, 
"Sister  Anne." 

In  an  hour  the  answer  came:  "Sister  Anne  is 
the  person  to  whom  I  refer.  She  is  dead." 

Sam  was  not  altogether  at  ease  at  the  out- 

38 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

come  of  his  adventure.  It  was  not  in  his  na 
ture  to  be  rude — certainly  not  to  a  woman, 
especially  not  to  the  most  beautiful  woman  he 
had  ever  seen.  For,  whether  her  name  was 
Anita  or  Anne,  about  her  beauty  there  could 
be  no  argument;  but  he  assured  himself  that 
he  had  acted  within  his  rights.  A  girl  who 
could  see  in  a  well-meant  offer  to  be  kind  only 
a  subject  for  ridicule  was  of  no  interest  to  him. 
Nor  did  her  telegrams  insisting  upon  continuing 
their  acquaintance  flatter  him.  As  he  read 
them,  they  showed  only  that  she  looked  upon 
him  as  one  entirely  out  of  her  world — as  one 
with  whom  she  could  do  an  unconventional 
thing  and  make  a  good  story  about  it  later, 
knowing  that  it  would  be  accepted  as  one  of 
her  amusing  caprices. 

He  was  determined  he  would  not  lend  him 
self  to  any  such  performance.  And,  besides,  he 
no  longer  was  a  foot-loose,  happy-go-lucky 
reporter.  He  no  longer  need  seek  for  expe 
riences  and  material  to  turn  into  copy.  He 
was  now  a  man  with  a  responsible  position- 
one  who  soon  would  be  conferring  with  cabinet 
ministers  and  putting  ambassadors  at  their 
ease.  He  wondered  if  a  beautiful  heiress,  whose 
hand  was  sought  in  marriage  by  the  nobility 
of  England,  would  understand  the  importance 
cf  a  London  correspondent.  He  hoped  some 

39 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

one  would  tell  her.  He  liked  to  think  of  her 
as  being  considerably  impressed  and  a  little 
unhappy. 

Saturday  night  he  went  to  the  theatre  for 
which  he  had  purchased  tickets.  And  he  went 
alone,  for  the  place  that  Sister  Anne  was  to 
have  occupied  could  not  be  filled  by  any  other 
person.  It  would  have  been  sacrilege.  At 
least,  so  it  pleased  him  to  pretend.  And  all 
through  dinner,  which  he  ate  alone  at  the  same 
restaurant  to  which  he  had  intended  taking 
her,  he  continued  to  pretend  she  was  with  him. 
And  at  the  theatre,  where  there  was  going  for 
ward  the  most  popular  of  all  musical  comedies, 
the  seat  next  to  him,  which  to  the  audience 
appeared  wastefully  empty,  was  to  him  filled 
with  her  gracious  presence.  That  Sister  Anne 
was  not  there — that  the  pretty  romance  he  had 
woven  about  her  had  ended  in  disaster — filled 
him  with  real  regret.  He  was  glad  he  was 
leaving  New  York.  He  was  glad  he  was  going 
where  nothing  would  remind  him  of  her.  And 
then  he  glanced  up — and  looked  stiaight  into 
her  eyes ! 

He  was  seated  in  the  front  row,  directly  on 
the  aisle.  The  seat  Sister  Anne  was  supposed 
to  be  occupying  was  on  his  right,  and  a  Tew 
seats  farther  to  his  right  rose  the  stage  box; 
and  in  the  stage  box,  almost  upon  the  stage, 

40 


F  THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

and  with  the  glow  of  the  foot-lights  full  in  her 
face,  was  Anita  Flagg,  smiling  delightedly  down 
on  him.  There  were  others  with  her.  He  had 
a  confused  impression  of  bulging  shirt-fronts, 
and  shining  silks,  and  diamonds,  and  drooping 
plumes  upon  enormous  hats.  He  thought  he 
recognized  Lord  Deptford  and  Holworthy;  but 
the  only  person  he  distinguished  clearly  was 
Anita  Flagg.  The  girl  was  all  in  black  velvet, 
which  was  drawn  to  her  figure  like  a  wet  bath 
ing  suit;  round  her  throat  was  a  single  string 
of  pearls,  and  on  her  hair  of  golden-rod  was  a 
great  hat  of  black  velvet,  shaped  like  a  bell, 
with  the  curving  lips  of  a  lily.  And  from  be 
neath  its  brim  Anita  Flagg,  sitting  rigidly  erect 
with  her  white-gloved  hands  resting  lightly  on 
her  knee,  was  gazing  down  at  him,  smiling  with 
pleasure,  with  surprise,  with  excitement. 

When  she  saw  that,,  in  spite  of  her  altered 
appearance,  he  recognized  her,  she  bowed  so 
violently  and  bent  her  head  so  eagerly  t;hat 
above  her  the  ostrich  plumes  dipped  and  courte- 
sied  like  wheat  in  a  storm.  But  Sam  neither 
bowed  nor  courtesied.  Instead,  he  turned  his 
head  slowly  over  his  left  shoulder,  as  though  he 
thought  she  was  speaking  not  to  him  but  some 
one  beyond  him,  across  the  aisle.  And  then 
his  eyes  returned  to  the  stage  and  did  not 
again  look  toward  her.  It  was  not  the  cut 

41 


THE   RED  CROSS  GIRL 

direct,  but  it  was  a  cut  that  hurt;  and  in  their 
turn  the  eyes  of  Miss  Flagg  quickly  sought  the 
stage.  At  the  moment,  the  people  in  the  audi 
ence  happened  to  be  laughing;  and  she  forced 
a  smile  and  then  laughed  with  them. 

Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  Sam  could  not 
help  seeing  her  profile  exposed  pitilessly  in  the 
glow  of  the  foot-lights;  saw  her  lips  tremble 
like  those  of  a  child  about  to  cry;  and  then  saw/ 
the  forced,  hard  smile — and  heard  her  laugh 
lightly  and  mechanically. 

"That's  all  she  cares!"  he  told  himself. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  in  all  he  heard  of  her, 
in  everything  she  did,  she  kept  robbing  him 
still  further  of  all  that  was  dear  to  him  in 
Sister  Anne. 

For  five  minutes,  conscious  of  the  foot-lights, 
Miss  Flagg  maintained  upon  her  lovely  face  a 
fixed  and  intent  expression,  and  then  slowly 
and  unobtrusively  drew  back  to  a  seat  in  the 
rear  of  the  box.  In  the  darkest  recesses  she 
found  Holworthy,  shut  off  from  a  view  of  the 
stage  by  a  barrier  of  women's  hats. 

"Your  friend  Mr.  Ward,"  she  began  abruptly 
in  a  whisper,  "is  the  rudest,  most  ill-bred  per 
son  I  ever  met.  When  I  talked  to  him  the 
other  day  I  thought  he  was  nice.  He  was  nice. 
But  he  has  behaved  abominably — like  a  boor- 
like  a  sulky  child.  Has  he  no  sense  of  humor? 

42 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

Because  I  played  a  joke  on  him,  is  that  any 
reason  why  he  should  hurt  me?" 

"Hurt  you?"  exclaimed  little  Holworthy  in 
amazement.  "  Don't  be  ridiculous !  How  could 
he  hurt  you?  Why  should  you  care  how  rude 
he  is?  Ward's  a  clever  fellow,  but  he  fancies 
himself.  He's  conceited.  He's  too  good-look 
ing;  and  a  lot  of  silly  women  have  made  such 
a  fuss  over  him.  So  when  one  of  them  laughs 
at  him  he  can't  understand  it.  That's  the 
trouble.  I  could  see  that  when  I  was  telling 
him." 

"Telling  him!"  repeated  Miss  Flagg— "Tell 
ing  him  what?" 

"About  what  a  funny  story  you  made  of  it," 
explained  Holworthy.  "About  his  having  the 
nerve  to  ask  you  to  feed  the  monkeys  and  to 
lunch  with  him." 

Miss  Flagg  interrupted  with  a  gasping  intake 
of  her  breath. 

"Oh!"  she  said  softly.  "So— so  you  told 
him  that,  did  you?  And — what  else  did  you 
tell  him?" 

"Only  what  you  told  us — that  he  said  'the 
day  could  not  begin  too  soon';  that  he  said  he 
wouldn't  let  you  be  a  manicure  and  wash  the 
hands  of  men  who  weren't  fit  to  wash  the 
streets  you  walked  on." 

There  was  a  pause. 

43 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

"Did  I  tell  you  he  said  that?"  breathed 
Anita  Flagg. 

"You  know  you  did,"  said  Holworthy. 

There  was  another  pause. 

"I  must  have  been  mad !"  said  the  girl. 

There  was  a  longer  pause  and  Holworthy 
shifted  uneasily. 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  angry,"  he  ventured. 

"Angry!"  exclaimed  Miss  Flagg.  "I  should 
say  I  was  angry !— but  not  with  you.  I'm  very 
much  pleased  with  you.  At  the  end  of  the  act 
I'm  going  to  let  you  take  me  out  into  the 
lobby." 

With  his  arms  tightly  folded,  Sam  sat  staring 
unhappily  at  the  stage  and  seeing  nothing.  He 
was  sorry  for  himself  because  Anita  Flagg  had 
destroyed  his  ideal  of  a  sweet  and  noble  woman 
—and  he  was  sorry  for  Miss  Flagg  because  a 
man  had  been  rude  to  her.  That  he  happened 
to  be  that  man  did  not  make  his  sorrow  and 
indignation  the  less  intense;  and,  indeed,  so 
miserable  was  he  and  so  miserable  were  his 
looks,  that  his  friends  on  the  stage  considered 
sending  him  a  note,  offering,  if  he  would  take 
himself  out  of  the  front  row,  to  give  him  back 
his  money  at  the  box  office.  Sam  certainly 
wished  to  take  himself  away;  but  he  did  not 
want  to  admit  that  he  was  miserable,  that  he 
behaved  ill,  that  the  presence  of  Anita 
44 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

Flagg  could  spoil  his  evening — could,  in  the 
slightest  degree  affect  him.  So  he  sat,  com 
pletely  wretched,  feeling  that  he  was  in  a  false 
position;  that  if  he  were  it  was  his  own  fault; 
that  he  had  acted  like  an  ass  and  a  brute.  It 
was  not  a  cheerful  feeling. 

When  the  curtain  fell  he  still  remained  seated. 
He  knew  before  the  second  act  there  was  an 
interminable  wait;  but  he  did  not  want  to 
chance  running  into  Holworthy  in  the  lobby 
and  he  told  himself  it  would  be  rude  to  aban 
don  Sister  Anne.  But  he  now  was  not  so  con 
scious  of  the  imaginary  Sister  Anne  as  of  the 
actual  box  party  on  his  near  right,  who  were 
laughing  and  chattering  volubly.  He  wondered 
whether  they  laughed  at  him — whether  Miss 
Flagg  were  again  entertaining  them  at  his  ex 
pense;  again  making  his  advances  appear  ridic 
ulous.  He  was  so  sure  of  it  that  he  flushed  in 
dignantly.  He  was  glad  he  had  been  rude. 

And  then,  at  his  elbow,  there  was  the  rustle 
of  silk;  and  a  beautiful  figure,  all  in  black  vel 
vet,  towered  above  him,  then  crowded  past 
him,  and  sank  into  the  empty  seat  at  his  side. 
He  was  too  startled  to  speak — and  Miss  Anita 
Flagg  seemed  to  understand  that  and  to  wish 
to  give  him  time;  for,  without  regarding  him 
in  the  least,  and  as  though  to  establish  the  fact 
that  she  had  come  to  stay,  she  began  calmly 

45 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

and  deliberately  to  remove  the  bell-like  hat. 
This  accomplished,  she  bent  toward  him,  her 
eyes  looking  straight  into  his,  her  smile  re 
proaching  him.  In  the  familiar  tone  of  an  old 
and  dear  friend  she  said  to  him  gently: 

"This  is  the  day  you  planned  for  me.  Don't 
you  think  you've  wasted  quite  enough  of 
it?" 

Sam  looked  back  into  the  eyes,  and  saw  in 
them  no  trace  of  laughter  or  of  mockery,  but, 
instead,  gentle  reproof  and  appeal — and  some 
thing  else  that,  in  turn,  begged  of  him  to  be 
gentle. 

For  a  moment,  too  disturbed  to  speak,  he 
looked  at  her,  miserably,  remorsefully. 

"It's  not  Anita  Flagg  at  all,"  he  said.  "It's 
Sister  Anne  come  back  to  life  again!" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"No;  it's  Anita  Flagg.  I'm  not  a  bit  like  the 
girl  you  thought  you  met  and  I  did  say  all  the 
things  Holworthy  told  you  I  said;  but  that  was 
before  I  understood — before  I  read  what  you 
wrote  about  Sister  Anne — about  the  kind  of  me 
you  thought  you'd  met.  When  I  read  that  I 
knew  what  sort  of  a  man  you  were.  I  knew 
you  had  been  really  kind  and  gentle,  and  I  knew 
you  had  dug  out  something  that  I  did  not 
know  was  there — that  no  one  else  had  found. 
And  I  remembered  how  you  called  me  Sister. 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

I  mean  the  way  you  said  it.     And  I  wanted  to 
hear  it  again.     I  wanted  you  to  say  it." 

She  lifted  her  face  to  his.  She  was  very  near 
him — so  near  that  her  shoulder  brushed  against 
his  arm.  In  the  box  above  them  her  friends, 
scandalized  and  amused,  were  watching  her 
with  the  greatest  interest.  Half  of  the  people 
in  the  now  half-empty  house  were  watching 
them  with  the  greatest  interest.  To  them,  be 
tween  reading  advertisements  on  the  programme 
and  watching  Anita  Flagg  making  desperate  love 
to  a  lucky  youth  in  the  front  row,  there  was  no 
question  of  which  to  choose. 

The  young  people  in  the  front  row  did  not 
knowr  they  were  observed.     They  were  alone— 
as  much  alone  as  though  they  were  seated  in  a 
biplane,  sweeping  above  the  clouds. 

"Say  it  again,"  prompted  Anita  Flagg.  "Say 
Sister." 

"I  will  not!"  returned  the  young  man  firmly. 
"But  I'll  say  this,"  he  whispered:  "I'll  say 
you're  the  most  wonderful,  the  most  beautiful, 
and  the  finest  woman  who  has  ever  lived!" 

Anita  Flagg's  eyes  left  his  quickly;  and,  with 
her  head  bent,  she  stared  at  the  bass  drum  in 
the  orchestra. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "but  that  sounds 
just  as  good." 

When  the  curtain  was  about  to  rise  she  told 
47 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

him  to  take  her  back  to  her  box,  so  that  he 
could  meet  her  friends  and  go  on  with  them 
to  supper;  but  when  they  reached  the  rear  of 
the  house  she  halted. 

"We  can  see  this  act,"  she  said,  "or — my 
car's  in  front  of  the  theatre — we  might  go  to 
the  park  and  take  a  turn  or  two — or  three. 
Which  would  you  prefer  ?" 

"Don't  make  me  laugh!"  said  Sam. 

As  they  sat  all  together  at  supper  with  those 
of  the  box  party,  but  paying  no  attention  to 
them  whatsoever,  Anita  Flagg  sighed  content 
edly. 

"There's  only  one  thing,"  she  said  to  Sam, 
"that  is  making  me  unhappy;  and  because  it  is 
such  sad  news  I  haven't  told  you.  It  is  this:  I 
am  leaving  America.  I  am  going  to  spend  the 
winter  in  London.  I  sail  next  Wednesday." 

"My  business  is  to  gather  news,"  said  Sam, 
"but  in  all  my  life  I  never  gathered  such  good 
news  as  that." 

"Good  news!"  exclaimed  Anita. 

"Because,"  explained  Sam,  "I  am  leaving 
America — I  am  spending  the  winter  in  England 
— I  am  sailing  on  Wednesday.  No;  I  also  am 
unhappy,  but  that  is  not  what  makes  me  un 
happy." 

:<TeII  me,"  begged  Anita. 

"Some  day,"  said  Sam. 
48 


The  day  he  chose  to  tell  her  was  the  first  day  they  were 

at  sea. 


THE  RED  CROSS  GIRL 

The  day  he  chose  to  tell  her  was  the  first  day 
they  were  at  sea — as  they  leaned  upon  the  rail, 
watching  Fire  Island  disappear. 

"This  is  my  unhappiness,"  said  Sam — and  he 
pointed  to  a  name  on  the  passenger  list.  It 
was:  "The  Earl  of  Deptford,  and  valet."  "And 
because  he  is  on  board !" 

Anita  Flagg  gazed  with  interest  at  a  pursuing 
sea-gull. 

"He  is  not  on  board,"  she  said.  "He  changed 
to  another  boat." 

Sam  felt  that  by  a  word  from  her  a  great 
weight  might  be  lifted  from  his  soul.  He  looked 
at  her  appealingly — hungrily. 

"Why  did  he  change?"  he  begged. 

Anita  Flagg  shook  her  head  in  wonder.  She 
smiled  at  him  with  amused  despair. 

"Is  that  all  that  is  worrying  you?"  she  said. 


49 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE 
CRESCENT 

OF  some  college  students  it  has  been  said 
that,  in  order  to  pass  their  examinations,  they 
will  deceive  and  cheat  their  kind  professors. 
This  may  or  may  not  be  true.  One  only  can 
shudder  and  pass  hurriedly  on.  But  whatever 
others  may  have  done,  when  young  Peter  Hal- 
lowell  in  his  senior  year  came  up  for  those  final 
examinations  which,  should  he  pass  them  even 
by  a  nose,  would  gain  him  his  degree,  he  did 
not  cheat.  He  may  have  been  too  honest,  too 
confident,  too  lazy,  but  Peter  did  not  cheat.  It 
was  the  professors  who  cheated. 

At  Stillwater  College,  on  each  subject  on 
which  you  are  examined  you  can  score  a  possi 
ble  hundred.  That  means  perfection,  and  in 
the  brief  history  of  Stillwater,  which  is  a  very 
new  college,  only  one  man  has  attained  it. 
After  graduating  he  "accepted  a  position"  in 
an  asylum  for  the  insane,  from  which  he  was 
promoted  later  to  the  poor-house,  where  he  died. 
Many  Stillwater  undergraduates  studied  his 
career  and,  lest  they  also  should  attain  perfec 
tion,  were  afraid  to  study  anything  else.  Among 
these  Peter  was  by  far  the  most  afraid. 

50 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

The  marking  system  at  Stillwater  is  as  fol 
lows:  If  in  all  the  subjects  in  which  you  have 
been  examined  your  marks  added  together  give 
you  an  average  of  ninety,  you  are  passed  "with 
honors";  if  of  seventy-five,  you  pass  "with  dis 
tinction";  if  of  fifty,  you  just  "pass."  It  is 
not  unlike  the  grocer's  nice  adjustment  of  fresh 
eggs,  good  eggs,  and  eggs.  The  whole  college 
knew  that  if  Peter  got  in  among  the  eggs  he 
would  be  lucky,  but  the  professors  and  in 
structors  of  Stillwater  were  determined  that, 
no  matter  what  young  Hallowell  might  do  to 
prevent  it,  they  would  see  that  he  passed  his 
examinations.  And  they  constituted  the  jury 
of  awards.  Their  interest  in  Peter  was  not 
because  they  loved  him  so  much,  but  because 
each  loved  his  own  vine-covered  cottage,  his 
salary,  and  his  dignified  title  the  more.  And 
each  knew  that  that  one  of  the  faculty  who 
dared  to  flunk  the  son  of  old  man  Hallowell, 
who  had  endowed  Stillwater,  who  supported 
Stillwater,  and  who  might  be  expected  to  go 
on  supporting  Stillwater  indefinitely,  might 
also  at  the  same  time  hand  in  his  official  resig 
nation. 

Chancellor  Black,  the  head  of  Stillwater,  was 
an  up-to-date  college  president.  If  he  did  not 
actually  run  after  money  he  went  where  money 
was,  and  it  was  not  his  habit  to  be  downright 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

rude  to  those  who  possessed  it.  And  if  any 
three-thousand-dollar-a-year  professor,  through 
a  too  strict  respect  for  Stillwater's  standards  of 
learning,  should  lose  to  that  institution  a  half- 
million-dollar  observatory,  swimming-pool,  or 
gymnasium,  he  was  the  sort  of  college  president 
who  would  see  to  it  that  the  college  lost  also  the 
services  of  that  too  conscientious  instructor. 

He  did  not  put  this  in  writing  or  in  words, 
but  just  before  the  June  examinations,  when  on 
the  campus  he  met  one  of  the  faculty,  he  would 
inquire  with  kindly  interest  as  to  the  standing 
of  young  Hallowell. 

"That  is  too  bad!"  he  would  exclaim,  but 
more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger.  "Still,  I  hope 
the  boy  can  pull  through.  He  is  his  dear  fa 
ther's  pride,  and  his  father's  heart  is  set  upon 
his  son's  obtaining  his  degree.  Let  us  hope  he 
will  pull  through." 

For  four  years  every  professor  had  been  pull 
ing  Peter  through,  and  the  conscience  of  each 
had  become  calloused.  They  had  only  once 
more  to  shove  him  through  and  they  would  be 
free  of  him  forever.  And  so,  although  they 
did  not  conspire  together,  each  knew  that  of 
the  firing  squad  that  was  to  aim  its  rifles  at 
Peter,  his  rifle  would  hold  the  blank  cartridge. 

The  only  one  of  them  who  did  not  know  this 
was  Doctor  Henry  Gilman.  Doctor  Gilman 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

was  the  professor  of  ancient  and  modern  his 
tory  at  Stillwater,  and  greatly  respected  and 
loved.  He  also  was  the  author  of  those  well- 
known  text-books,  "The  Founders  of  Islam," 
and  "The  Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Turkish  Empire." 
This  latter  work,  in  five  volumes,  had  been  not 
unfavorably  compared  to  Gibbon's  "Decline 
and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire."  The  original 
newspaper  comment,  dated  some  thirty  years 
back,  the  doctor  had  preserved,  and  would  pro 
duce  it,  now  somewhat  frayed  and  worn,  and 
read  it  to  visitors.  He  knew  it  by  heart,  hut 
to  him  it  always  possessed  a  contemporary  an! 
news  interest. 

"Here  is  a  review  of  the  history,"  he  would 
say — he  always  referred  to  it  as  "the"  history 

"that  I  came  across  in  my  Transcript." 

In  the  eyes  of  Doctor  Gilman  thirty  years 
was  so  brief  a  period  that  it  was  as  though  the 
clipping  had  been  printed  the  previous  after 
noon. 

The  members  of  his  class  who  were  examined 
on  the  "Rise  and  Fall,"  and  who  invariably 
came  to  grief  over  it,  referred  to  it  briefly  as 
"the  Fall,"  sometimes  feelingly  as  "the  — — 
Fall."  "The"  history  began  when  Constanti- 
lople  was  Byzantium,  skipped  lightly  over  six 
centuries  to  Constantine,  and  in  the  last  two 
volumes  finished  up  the  Mohammeds  with  the 

53 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

downfall  of  the  fourth  one  and  the  coming  of 
Suleiman.  Since  Suleiman,  Doctor  Oilman  did 
not  recognize  Turkey  as  being  on  the  map. 
When  his  history  said  the  Turkish  Empire  had 
fallen,  then  the  Turkish  Empire  fell.  Once 
Chancellor  Black  suggested  that  he  add  a  sixth 
volume  that  would  cover  the  last  three  cen 
turies. 

"In  a  history  of  Turkey  issued  as  a  text 
book,"  said  the  chancellor,  "I  think  the  Rus 
sian-Turkish  War  should  be  included." 

Doctor  Gilman,  from  behind  his  gold-rimmed 
spectacles,  gazed  at  him  in  mild  reproach. 

"The  war  in  the  Crimea!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Why,  I  was  alive  at  the  time.  I  know  all 
about  it.  That  is  not  history." 

Accordingly,  it  followed  that  to  a  man  who 
since  the  seventeenth  century  knew  of  no  event 
of  interest,  Cyrus  Hallowell,  of  the  meat-pack 
ers'  trust,  was  not  an  imposing  figure.  And  to 
such  a  man  the  son  of  Cyrus  Hallowell  was  but 
an  ignorant  young  savage,  to  whom  "the"  his 
tory  certainly  had  been  a  closed  book.  And  so 
when  Peter  returned  his  examination  paper  in 
a  condition  almost  as  spotless  as  that  in  which 
he  had  received  it,  Doctor  Gilman  carefully  and 
conscientiously,  with  malice  toward  none  and 
with  no  thought  of  the  morrow,  marked  it 
"five." 

54 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

Each  of  the  other  professors  and  instructors 
had  marked  Peter  fifty.  In  their  fear  of  Chan 
cellor  Black  they  dared  not  give  the  boy  less, 
but  they  refused  to  be  slaves  to  the  extent  of 
crediting  him  with  a  single  point  higher  than 
was  necessary  to  pass  him.  But  Doctor  Gil- 
man's  five  completely  knocked  out  the  required 
average  of  fifty,  and  young  Peter  was  "found" 
and  could  not  graduate.  It  was  an  awful  busi 
ness  !  The  only  son  of  the  only  Hallowell  re 
fused  a  degree  in  his  father's  own  private  col 
lege — the  son  of  the  man  who  had  built  the 
Hallowell  Memorial,  the  new  Laboratory,  the 
Anna  Hallowell  Chapel,  the  Hallowell  Dormi 
tory,  and  the  Hallowell  Athletic  Field.  When 
on  the  bulletin  board  of  the  dim  hall  of  the 
Memorial  to  his  departed  grandfather  Peter 
read  of  his  own  disgrace  and  downfall,  the  light 
the  stained-glass  window  cast  upon  his  nose 
was  of  no  sicklier  a  green  than  was  the  nose 
itself.  Not  that  Peter  wanted  an  A.M.  or  an 
A.B.,  not  that  he  desired  laurels  he  had  not 
won,  but  because  the  young  man  was  afraid  of 
his  father.  And  he  had  cause  to  be.  Father 
arrived  at  St/IIwater  the  next  morning.  The 
interviews  that  followed  made  Stillwater  his 
tory. 

"My  son  is  not  an  ass!"  is  what  Hallowell 
senior  is  said  to  have  said  to  Doctor  Black. 

55 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

"And  if  in  four  years  you  and  your  faculty  can 
not  give  him  the  rudiments  of  an  education,  I 
will  send  him  to  a  college  that  can.  And  I'll 
send  my  money  where  I  send  Peter." 

In  reply  Chancellor  Black  could  have  said 
that  it  was  the  fault  of  the  son  and  not  of  the 
college;  he  could  have  said  that  where  three 
men  had  failed  to  graduate  one  hundred  and 
eighty  had  not.  But  did  he  say  that?  Oh,  no, 
he  did  not  say  that !  He  was  not  that  sort  of 
a  college  president.  Instead,  he  remained  calm 
and  sympathetic,  and  like  a  conspirator  in  a 
comic  opera  glanced  apprehensively  round  his 
study.  He  lowered  his  voice. 

"There  has  been  contemptible  work  here,'* 
he  whispered — "spite  and  a  mean  spirit  of 
reprisal.  I  have  been  making  a  secret  inves 
tigation,  and  I  find  that  this  blow  at  your  son 
and  you,  and  at  the  good  name  of  our  college, 
was  struck  by  one  man,  a  man  with  a  grievance 
— Doctor  Gilman.  Doctor  Gilman  has  repeat 
edly  desired  me  to  raise  his  salary."  This  did 
not  happen  to  be  true,  but  in  such  a  crisis  Doc 
tor  Black  could  not  afford  to  be  too  particular. 

"I  have  seen  no  reason  for  raising  his  salary 
— and  there  you  have  the  explanation.  In  re 
venge  he  has  made  this  attack.  But  he  has 
overshot  his  mark.  In  causing  us  temporary 
embarrassment  he  has  brought  about  his  own 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

downfall.     I  have  already  asked  for  his  resig 
nation." 

Every  day  in  the  week  Hallowell  was  a  fair, 
sane  man,  but  on  this  particular  day  he  was 
wounded,  his  spirit  was  hurt,  his  self-esteem 
humiliated.  He  was  in  a  state  of  mind  to 
believe  anything  rather  than  that  his  son  was 
an  idiot. 

"I  don't  want  the  man  discharged,"  he  pro 
tested,  "just  because  Peter  is  lazy.  But  if 
Doctor  Gilman  was  moved  by  personal  consid 
erations,  if  he  sacrificed  my  Peter  in  order  to 
get  even " 

"That,"  exclaimed  Black  in  a  horrified  whis 
per,  "  is  exactly  what  he  did !  Your  generosity 
to  the  college  is  well  known.  You  are  recog 
nized  all  over  America  as  its  patron.  And  he 
believed  that  when  I  refused  him  an  increase  in 
salary  it  was  really  you  who  refused  it — and  he 
struck  at  you  through  your  son.  Everybody 
thinks  so.  The  college  is  on  fire  with  indigna 
tion.  And  look  at  the  mark  he  gave  Peter! 
Five !  That  in  itself  shows  the  malice.  Five  is 
not  a  mark,  it  is  an  insult!  No  one,  certainly 
not  your  brilliant  son — look  how  brilliantly  he 
managed  the  glee-club  and  foot-ball  tour — is 
stupid  enough  to  deserve  five.  No,  Doctor 
Gilman  went  too  far.  And  he  has  been  justly 
punished!" 

57 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

What  Hallowell  senior  was  willing  to  believe 
of  what  the  chancellor  told  him,  and  his  opinion 
of  the  matter  as  expressed  to  Peter,  differed 
materially. 

"They  tell  me,"  he  concluded,  "that  in  the 
fall  they  will  give  you  another  examination, 
and  if  you  pass  then,  you  will  get  your  degree. 
No  one  will  know  you've  got  it.  They'll  slip  it 
to  you  out  of  the  side-door  like  a  cold  potato 
to  a  tramp.  The  only  thing  people  will  know 
is  that  when  your  classmates  stood  up  and  got 
their  parchments — the  thing  they'd  been  work 
ing  for  for  four  years,  the  only  reason  for  their 
going  to  college  at  all— you  were  not  among 
those  present.  That's  your  fault;  but  if  you 
don't  get  your  degree  next  fall  that  will  be  my 
fault.  I've  supported  you  through  college  and 
you've  failed  to  deliver  the  goods.  Now  you 
deliver  them  next  fall,  or  you  can  support  your 
self." 

"That  will  be  all  right,"  said  Peter  humbly; 
"I'll  pass  next  fall." 

"I'm  going  to  make  sure  of  that,"  said  Hal 
lo  well  senior.  ''To-morrow  you  will  take  all 
those  history  books  that  you  did  not  open, 
especially  Oilman's  'Rise  and  Fall,'  which  it 
seems  you  have  not  even  purchased,  and  you 
will  travel  for  the  entire  summer  with  a  private 

tutor " 

58 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

Peter,  who  had  personally  conducted  the 
foot-ball  and  base-ball  teams  over  half  of  the 
Middle  States  and  daily  bullied  and  browbeat 
them,  protested  with  indignation. 

"I  won't  travel  with  a  private  tutor!" 

"If  I  say  so,"  returned  Hallowell  senior 
grimly,  "you'll  travel  with  a  governess  and  a 
trained  nurse,  and  wear  a  straitjacket.  And 
you'll  continue  to  wear  it  until  you  can  recite 
the  history  of  Turkey  backward.  And  in  order 
that  you  may  know  it  backward  and  forward 
you  will  spend  this  summer  in  Turkey — in 
Constantinople — until  I  send  you  permission  to 
corne  home." 

"Constantinople!"  yelled  Peter.  "In  Au 
gust!  Are  you  serious?" 

"  Do  I  look  it?"  asked  Peter's  father.    He  did. 

"In  Constantinople,"  explained  Mr.  Hallo- 
well  senior,  "there  will  be  nothing  to  distract 
you  from  your  studies,  and  in  spite  of  yourself 
every  minute  you  will  be  imbibing  history  and 
local  color." 

"I'll  be  imbibing  fever,"  returned  Peter, 
"and  sunstroke  and  sudden  death.  If  you 
want  to  get  rid  of  me,  why  don't  you  send  me 
to  the  island  where  they  sent  Dreyfus?  It's 
quicker.  You  don't  have  to  go  to  Turkey  to 
study  about  Turkey." 

"You  do!"  said  his  father. 
59 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

Peter  did  not  wait  for  the  festivities  of  com 
mencement  week.  All  day  he  hid  in  his  room, 
packing  his  belongings  or  giving  them  away  to 
the  members  of  his  class,  who  came  to  tell  him 
what  a  rotten  shame  it  was,  and  to  bid  him 
good-by.  They  loved  Peter  for  himself  alone, 
and  at  losing  him  were  loyally  enraged.  They 
desired  publicly  to  express  their  sentiments,  and 
to  that  end  they  planned  a  mock  trial  of  the 
"Rise  and  Fall,"  at  which  a  packed  jury  would 
sentence  it  to  cremation.  They  planned  also 
to  hang  Doctor  Gilman  in  effigy.  The  effigy 
with  a  rope  round  its  neck  was  even  then  await 
ing  mob  violence.  It  was  complete  to  the  sil 
ver-white  beard  and  the  gold  spectacles.  But 
Peter  squashed  both  demonstrations.  He  did 
not  know  Doctor  Gilman  had  been  forced  to 
resign,  but  he  protested  that  the  horse-play  of 
his  friends  would  make  him  appear  a  bad  loser. 

"It  would  look,  boys,"  he  said,  "as  though  I 
wouldn't  take  my  medicine.  Looks  like  kicking 
against  the  umpire's  decision.  Old  Gilman 
fought  fair.  He  gave  me  just  what  was  coming 
to  me.  I  think  a  darn  sight  more  of  him  than 
I  do  of  that  bunch  of  boot-IJckers  that  had  the 
colossal  nerve  to  pretend  I  scored  fifty !" 

Doctor  Gilman  sat  in  his  cottage  that  stood 
on  the  edge  of  the  campus,  gazing  at  a  plaster 
bust  of  Socrates  which  he  did  not  see.  Since 

60 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

that  morning  he  had  ceased  to  sit  in  the  chair 
of  history  at  Stillwater  College.  They  were  re 
trenching,  the  chancellor  had  told  him  curtly, 
cutting  down  unnecessary  expenses,  for  even  in 
his  anger  Doctor  Black  was  too  intelligent  to 
hint  at  his  real  motive,  and  the  professor  was 
far  too  innocent  of  evil,  far  too  detached  from 
college  politics  to  suspect.  He  would  remain  a 
professor  emeritus  on  half  pay,  but  he  no  longer 
would  teach.  The  college  he  had  served  for 
thirty  years — since  it  consisted  of  two  brick 
buildings  and  a  faculty  of  ten  young  men — no 
longer  needed  him.  Even  his  ivy-covered  cot 
tage,  in  which  his  wife  and  he  had  lived  for 
twenty  years,  in  which  their  one  child  had  died, 
would  at  the  beginning  of  the  next  term  be 
required  of  him.  But  the  college  would  allow 
him  those  six  months  in  which  to  "look  round." 
So,  just  outside  the  circle  of  light  from  his 
student  lamp,  he  sat  in  his  study,  and  stared 
with  unseeing  eyes  at  the  bust  of  Socrates.  He 
was  not  considering  ways  and  means.  They 
must  be  faced  later.  He  was  considering  how 
he  could  possibly  break  the  blow  to  his  wife. 
What  eviction  from  that  house  would  mean  to 
her  no  one  but  he  understood.  Since  the  day 
their  little  girl  had  died,  nothing  in  the  room 
that  had  been  her  playroom,  bedroom,  and 
nursery  had  been  altered,  nothing  had  been 

61 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

touched.  To  his  wife,  somewhere  in  the  house 
that  wonderful,  God-given  child  was  still  with 
them.  Not  as  a  memory  but  as  a  real  and  liv 
ing  presence.  When  at  night  the  professor  and 
his  wife  sat  at  either  end  of  the  study  table, 
reading  by  the  same  lamp,  he  would  see  her  sud 
denly  lift  her  head,  alert  and  eager,  as  though 
from  the  nursery  floor  a  step  had  sounded,  as 
though  from  the  darkness  a  sleepy  voice  had 
called -her.  And  when  they  would  be  forced  to 
move  to  lodgings  in  the  town,  to  some  students' 
boarding-house,  though  they  could  take  with 
them  their  books,  their  furniture,  their  mutual 
love  and  comradeship,  they  must  leave  behind 
them  the  haunting  presence  of  the  child,  the 
colored  pictures  she  had  cut  from  the  Christmas 
numbers  and  plastered  over  the  nursery  walls, 
the  rambler  roses  that  with  her  own  hands  she 
had  planted  and  that  now  climbed  to  her  win 
dow  and  each  summer  peered  into  her  empty 
room. 

Outside  Doctor  Gilman's  cottage,  among  the 
trees  of  the  campus,  paper  lanterns  like  oranges 
aglow  were  swaying  in  the  evening  breeze.  In 
front  of  Hallowell  the  flame  of  a  bonfire  shot  to 
the  top  of  the  tallest  elms,  and  gathered  in  a 
circle  round  it  the  glee  club  sang,  and  cheer  suc 
ceeded  cheer — cheers  for  the  heroes  of  the  cinder 
track,  for  the  heroes  of  the  diamond  and  the  grid- 

62 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

iron,  cheers  for  the  men  who  had  flunked — espe 
cially  for  one  man  who  had  flunked.  But  for  the 
man  who  for  thirty  years  in  the  class  room  had 
served  the  college  there  were  no  cheers.  No 
one  remembered  him,  except  the  one  student 
who  had  best  reason  to  remember  him.  But  in 
this  recollection  Peter  had  no  rancor  or  bitter 
ness  and,  still  anxious  lest  he  should  be  consid 
ered  a  bad  loser,  he  wished  Doctor  Gilman  and 
every  one  else  to  know  that.  So  when  the  cele 
bration  was  at  its  height  and  just  before  his 
train  was  due  to  carry  him  from  Stillwater,  he 
ran  across  the  campus  to  the  Gilman  cottage  to 
say  good-by.  But  he  did  not  enter  the  cottage. 
He  went  so  far  only  as  half-way  up  the  garden 
walk.  In  the  window  of  the  study  which 
opened  upon  the  veranda  he  saw  through  a 
frame  of  honeysuckles  the  professor  and  his 
wife  standing  beside  the  study  table.  They 
were  clinging  to  each  other,  the  woman  weeping 
silently  with  her  cheek  on  his  shoulder,  her 
thin,  delicate,  well-bred  hands  clasping  his 
arms,  while  the  man  comforted  her  awkwardly, 
unhappily,  with  hopeless,  futile  caresses. 

Peter,  shocked  and  miserable  at  what  he  had 
seen,  backed  steadily  away.  What  disaster  had 
befallen  the  old  couple  he  could  not  imagine. 
The  idea  that  he  himself  might  in  any  way  be 
connected  with  their  grief  never  entered  his 

63 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

mind.  He  was  certain  only  that,  whatever  the 
trouble  was,  it  was  something  so  intimate  and 
personal  that  no  mere  outsider  might  dare  to 
offer  his  sympathy.  So  on  tiptoe  he  retreated 
down  the  garden  walk  and,  avoiding  the  cele 
bration  at  the  bonfire,  returned  to  his  rooms. 
An  hour  later  the  entire  college  escorted  him 
to  the  railroad  station,  and  with  "He's  a  jolly 
good  fellow"  and  "He's  off  to  Philippopolis  in 
the  morn-ing"  ringing  in  his  ears,  he  sank  back 
in  his  seat  in  the  smoking-car  and  gazed  at  the 
lights  of  Stillwater  disappearing  out  of  his  life. 
And  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  what  lingered 
in  his  mind  was  not  the  students,  dancing  like 
red  Indians  round  the  bonfire,  or  at  the  steps 
of  the  smoking-car  fighting  to  shake  his  hand, 
but  the  man  and  woman  alone  in  the  cottage 
stricken  with  sudden  sorrow,  standing  like  two 
children  lost  in  the  streets,  who  cling  to  each 
other  for  comfort  and  at  the  same  moment 
whisper  words  of  courage. 

Two  months  later,  at  Constantinople,  Peter 
was  suffering  from  remorse  over  neglected  op 
portunities,  from  prickly  heat,  and  from  fleas. 
Had  it  not  been  for  the  moving-picture  man, 
and  the  poker  and  baccarat  at  the  Cercle  Ori 
ental,  he  would  have  flung  himself  into  the 
Bosphorus.  In  the  mornings  with  the  tutor 
he  read  ancient  history,  which  he  promptly 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

forgot;  and  for  the  rest  of  the  hot,  dreary  day 
with  the  moving-picture  man  through  the  ba 
zaars  and  along  the  water-front  he  stalked  sub 
jects  for  the  camera. 

The  name  of  the  moving-picture  man  was 
Harry  Stetson.  He  had  been  a  newspaper  re 
porter,  a  press-agent,  and  an  actor  in  vaudeville 
and  in  a  moving-picture  company.  Now  on 
his  own  account  he  was  preparing  an  illustrated 
lecture  on  the  East,  adapted  to  churches  and 
Sunday-schools.  Peter  and  he  wrote  it  in  col 
laboration,  and  in  the  evenings  rehearsed  it 
with  lantern  slides  before  an  audience  of  the 
hotel  clerk,  the  tutor,  and  the  German  soldier 
of  fortune  who  was  trying  to  sell  the  young 
Turks  very  old  battleships.  Every  other  for 
eigner  had  fled  the  city,  and  the  entire  diplo 
matic  corps  had  removed  itself  to  the  summer 
capital  at  Therapia. 

There  Stimson,  the  first  secretary  of  the  em 
bassy  and,  in  the  absence  of  the  ambassador, 
charge  d'affaires,  invited  Peter  to  become  his 
guest.  Stimson  was  most  anxious  to  be  polite 
to  Peter,  for  Hallowell  senior  was  a  power  in 
the  party  then  in  office,  and  a  word  from  him 
at  Washington  in  favor  of  a  rising  young  diplo 
mat  would  do  no  harm.  But  Peter  was  afraid 
his  father  would  consider  Therapia  "out  of 
bounds." 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

"Fie  sent  me  to  Constantinople,"  explained 
Peter,  "and  if  he  thinks  I'm  not  playing  the 
game  the  Lord  only  knows  where  he  might  send 
me  next — and  he  might  cut  off  my  allowance." 

In  the  matter  of  allowance  Peter's  father  had 
been  most  generous.  This  was  fortunate,  for 
poker,  as  the  pashas  and  princes  played  it  at 
the  Cercle,  was  no  game  for  cripples  or  children. 
But,  owing  to  his  letter-of-credit  and  his  ill- 
spent  life,  Peter  was  able  to  hold  his  own 
against  men  three  times  his  age  and  of  fortunes 
nearly  equal  to  that  of  his  father.  Only  they 
disposed  of  their  wealth  differently.  On  many 
a  hot  evening  Peter  saw  as  much  of  their  money 
scattered  over  the  green  table  as  his  father  had 
spent  over  the  Hallowell  Athletic  Field. 

In  this  fashion  Peter  spent  his  first  month  of 
exile — in  the  morning  trying  to  fill  his  brain 
with  names  of  great  men  who  had  been  a  long 
time  dead,  and  in  his  leisure  hours  with  local 
color.  To  a  youth  of  his  active  spirit  it  was  a 
dull  life  without  joy  or  recompense.  A  letter 
from  Charley  Hines,  a  classmate  who  lived  at 
Stillwater,  which  arrived  after  Peter  had  en 
dured  six  weeks  of  Constantinople,  released  him 
from  boredom  and  gave  life  a  real  interest.  It 
was  a  letter  full  of  gossip  intended  to  amuse. 
One  paragraph  failed  of  its  purpose.  It  read: 
"Old  man  Gilman  has  got  the  sack.  The  chan- 

66 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

cellor  offered  him  up  as  a  sacrifice  to  your  father, 
and  because  he  was  unwise  enough  to  flunk 
you.  He  is  to  move  out  in  September.  I  ran 
across  them  last  week  when  I  was  looking  for 
rooms  for  a  Freshman  cousin.  They  were  re 
serving  one  in  the  same  boarding-house.  It's 
a  shame,  and  I  know  you'll  agree.  They  are  a 
fine  old  couple,  and  I  don't  like  to  think  of  them 
herding  with  Freshmen  in  a  shine  boarding- 
house.  Black  always  was  a  swine." 

Peter  spent  fully  ten  minutes  in  getting  to 
the  cable  office. 

"Just  learned,"  he  cabled  his  father,  "Gil- 
man  dismissed  because  flunked  me  consider 
this  outrageous  please  see  he  is  reinstated." 

The  answer,  which  arrived  the  next  day,  did 
not  satisfy  Peter.  It  read:  "Informed  Gilman 
acted  through  spite  have  no  authority  as 
you  know  to  interfere  any  act  of  Black." 

Since  Peter  had  learned  of  the  disaster  that 
through  his  laziness  had  befallen  the  Gilmans, 
his  indignation  at  the  injustice  had  been  hourly 
increasing.  Nor  had  his  banishment  to  Con 
stantinople  strengthened  his  filial  piety.  On 
the  contrary,  it  had  rendered  him  independent 
and  but  little  inclined  to  kiss  the  paternal  rod. 
In  consequence  his  next  cable  was  not  concil 
iatory. 

"Dismissing    Gilman    looks    more    like    we 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

acted  through  spite  makes  me  appear  con 
temptible  Black  is  a  toady  will  do  as  you 
direct  please  reinstate." 

To  this  somewhat  peremptory  message  his 
father  answered: 

"If  your  position  unpleasant  yourself  to 
blame  not  Black  incident  is  closed." 

"Is  it?"  said  the  son  of  his  father.  He  called 
Stetson  to  his  aid  and  explained.  Stetson  re 
minded  him  of  the  famous  cablegram  of  his 
distinguished  contemporary:  "Perdicaris  alive 
or  Raisuli  dead!" 

Peter's  paraphrase  of  this  ran:  "Gilman  re 
turns  to  Stillwater  or  I  will  not  try  for  degree." 

The  reply  was  equally  emphatic: 

"You  earn  your  degree  or  you  earn  your  own 
living." 

This  alarmed  Stetson,  but  caused  Peter  to 
deliver  his  ultimatum:  "Choose  to  earn  my 
own  living  am  leaving  Constantinople." 

Within  a  few  days  Stetson  was  also  leaving 
Constantinople  by  steamer  via  Naples.  Peter, 
who  had  come  to  like  him  very  much,  would 
have  accompanied  him  had  he  not  preferred 
to  return  home  more  leisurely  by  way  of  Paris 
and  London. 

"You'll  get  there  long  before  I  do,"  said 
Peter,  "and  as  soon  as  you  arrive  I  want  you 
to  go  to  Stillwater  and  give  Doctor  Gilman 

68 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

some  souvenir  of  Turkey  from  me.  Just  to 
show  him  I've  no  hard  feelings.  He  wouldn't 
accept  money,  but  he  can't  refuse  a  present. 
I  want  it  to  be  something  characteristic  of  the 
country,  like  a  prayer  rug,  or  a  scimitar,  or  an 
illuminated  Koran,  or " 

Somewhat  doubtfully,  somewhat  sheepishly, 
Stetson  drew  from  his  pocket  a  flat  morocco 
case  and  opened  it.  "What's  the  matter  with 
one  of  these?"  he  asked. 

In  a  velvet-lined  jewel  case  was  a  star  of 
green  enamel  and  silver  gilt.  To  it  was  at 
tached  a  ribbon  of  red  and  green. 

"That's  the  Star  of  the  Crescent,"  said  Peter. 
"Where  did  you  buy  it?" 

"Buy  it!"  exclaimed  Stetson.  "You  don't 
buy  them.  The  Sultan  bestows  them." 

"  PII  bet  the  Sultan  didn't  bestow  that  one," 
said  Peter. 

"I'll  bet,"  returned  Stetson,  "I've  got  some 
thing  in  my  pocket  that  says  he  did." 

He  unfolded  an  imposing  document  covered 
with  slanting  lines  of  curving  Arabic  letters  in 
gold.  Peter  was  impressed  but  still  sceptical. 

"What  does  that  say  when  it  says  it  in 
English?"  he  asked. 

"It  says,"  translated  Stetson,  "that  his  Im 
perial  Majesty,  the  Sultan,  bestows  upon  Henry 
Stetson,  educator,  author,  lecturer,  the  Star  of 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

the  Order  of  the  Crescent,  of  the  fifth  class,  for 
services  rendered  to  Turkey." 

Peter  interrupted  him  indignantly. 

"Never  try  to  fool  the  fakirs,  my  son,"  he 
protested.  "I'm  a  fakir  myself.  What  ser 
vices  did  you  ever " 

"Services  rendered,"  continued  Stetson  un 
disturbed,  "  in  spreading  throughout  the  United 
States  a  greater  knowledge  of  the  customs,  in 
dustries,  and  religion  of  the  Ottoman  Empire. 
That,"  he  explained,  "refers  to  my — I  should 
say  our — moving-picture  lecture.  I  thought  it 
would  look  well  if,  when  I  lectured  on  Turkey, 
I  wore  a  Turkish  decoration,  so  I  went  after 
this  one." 

Peter  regarded  his  young  friend  with  incredu 
lous  admiration. 

"But  did  they  believe  you,"  he  demanded, 
"when  you  told  them  you  were  an  author  and 
educator?" 

Stetson  closed  one  eye  and  grinned.  "They 
believed  whatever  I  paid  them  to  believe." 

"If  you  can  get  one  of  those,"  cried  Peter, 
"old  man  Gilman  ought  to  get  a  dozen.  I'll 
tell  them  he's  the  author  of  the  longest  and 
dullest  history  of  their  flea-bitten  empire  that 
was  ever  written.  And  he's  a  real  professor 
and  a  real  author,  and  I  can  prove  it.  I'll 
show  them  the  five  volumes  with  his  name 

70 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

in  each.  How  much  did  that  thing  cost 
you?" 

"Two  hundred  dollars  in  bribes,"  said  Stet 
son  briskly,  "and  two  months  of  diplomacy/' 

"I  haven't  got  two  months  for  diplomacy," 
said  Peter,  "so  I'll  have  to  increase  the  bribes. 
I'll  stay  here  and  get  the  decoration  for  Gilman, 
and  you  work  the  papers  at  home.  No  one 
ever  heard  of  the  Order  of  the  Crescent,  but 
that  only  makes  it  the  easier  for  us.  They'll 
only  know  what  we  tell  them,  and  we'll  tell 
them  it's  the  highest  honor  ever  bestowed  by  a 
reigning  sovereign  upon  an  American  scholar. 
If  you  tell  the  people  often  enough  that  any 
thing  is  the  best  they  believe  you.  That's  the 
way  father  sells  his  hams.  You've  been  a 
press-agent.  From  now  on  you're  going  to 
be  my  press-agent — I  mean  Doctor  Oilman's 
press-agent.  I  pay  your  salary,  but  your  work 
is  to  advertise  him  and  the  Order  of  the  Cres 
cent.  I'll  give  you  a  letter  to  Charley  Hines 
at  Stillwater.  He  sends  out  college  news  to  a 
syndicate  and  he's  the  local  Associated  Press 
man.  He's  sore  at  their  discharging  Gilman 
and  he's  my  best  friend,  and  he'll  work  the 
papers  as  far  as  you  like.  Your  job  is  to  make 
Stillwater  College  and  Doctor  Black  and  my 
father  believe  that  when  they  lost  Gilman  they 
lost  the  man  who  made  Stillwater  famous. 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

And  before  we  get  through  boosting  Gilman, 
we'll  make  my  father's  million-dollar  gift  lab 
oratory  look  like  an  insult." 

In  the  eyes  of  the  former  press-agent  the 
light  of  battle  burned  fiercely,  memories  of  his 
triumphs  in  exploitation,  of  his  strategies  and 
tactics  in  advertising  soared  before  him. 

"It's  great!"  he  exclaimed.  "I've  got  your 
idea  and  you've  got  me.  And  you're  darned 
lucky  to  get  me.  I've  been  press-agent  for 
politicians,  actors,  society  leaders,  breakfast 
foods,  and  horse-shows — and  I'm  the  best!  I 
was  in  charge  of  the  publicity  bureau  for  Gallo 
way  when  he  ran  for  governor.  He  thinks  the 
people  elected  him.  I  know  I  did.  Nora 
Nashville  was  getting  fifty  dollars  a  week  in 
vaudeville  when  I  took  hold  of  her;  now  she 
gets  a  thousand.  I  even  made  people  believe 
Mrs.  Hampton-Rhodes  was  a  society  leader  at 
Newport,  when  all  she  ever  saw  of  Newport  was 
Bergers  and  the  Muschenheim-Kings.  Why, 
I  am  the  man  that  made  the  American  people 
believe  Russian  dancers  can  dance!" 

"It's  plain  to  see  you  hate  yourself,"  said 
Peter.  "You  must  not  get  so  despondent  or 
you  might  commit  suicide.  How  much  money 
will  you  want?" 

"How  much  have  you  got?" 

"All  kinds,"  said  Peter.  "Some  in  a  letter- 
72 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

of-credit  that  my  father  earned  from  the  fretful 
pig,  and  much  more  in  cash  that  I  won  at 
poker  from  the  pashas.  When  that's  gone  I've 
got  to  go  to  work  and  earn  my  living.  Mean 
while  yaur  salary  is  a  hundred  a  week  and  all 
you  need  to  boost  Gilman  and  the  Order  of  the 
Crescent.  We  are  now  the  Gilman  Defense, 
Publicity,  and  Development  Committee,  and 
you  will  begin  by  introducing  me  to  the  man  I 
am  to  bribe." 

"In  this  country  you  don't  need  any  intro 
duction  to  the  man  you  want  to  bribe,"  ex 
claimed  Stetson;  "you  just  bribe  him!" 


73 


II 


THAT  same  night  in  the  smoking-room  of  the 
hotel,  Peter  and  Stetson  made  their  first  move 
in  the  game  of  winning  for  Professor  Gilman 
the  Order  of  the  Crescent.  Stetson  presented 
Peter  to  a  young  effendi  in  a  frock  coat  and  fez. 
Stetson  called  him  Osman.  He  was  a  clerk  in 
the  foreign  office  and  appeared  to  be  "a  friend 
of  a  friend  of  a  friend"  of  the  assistant  third 
secretary. 

The  five  volumes  of  the  "Rise  and  Fall"  were 
spread  before  him,  and  Peter  demanded  to 
know  why  so  distinguished  a  scholar  as  Doctor 
Gilman  had  not  received  some  recognition  from 
the  country  he  had  so  sympathetically  de 
scribed.  Osman  fingered  the  volumes  doubt 
fully,  and  promised  the  matter  should  be  brought 
at  once  to  the  attention  of  the  grand  vizier. 

After  he  had  departed  Stetson  explained  that 
Osman  had  just  as  little  chance  of  getting 
within  speaking  distance  of  the  grand  vizier  as 
of  the  ladies  of  his  harem. 

"It's  like  Tammany,"  said  Stetson;  "there 
are  sachems,  district  leaders,  and  lieutenants. 
Each  of  them  is  entitled  to  trade  or  give  away 

74 


He  was  .     .  "a  friend  of  a  friend  of  a  friend." 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

a  few  of  these  decorations,  just  as  each  district 
leader  gets  his  percentage  of  jobs  in  the  street- 
cleaning  department.  This  fellow  will  go  to 
his  patron,  his  patron  will  go  to  some  under 
secretary  in  the  cabinet,  he  will  put  it  up  to  a 
palace  favorite,  and  they  will  divide  your 
money. 

"In  time  the  minister  of  foreign  affairs  will 
sign  your  brevet  and  a  hundred  others,  without 
knowing  what  he  is  signing;  then  you  cable  me, 
and  the  Star  of  the  Crescent  will  burst  upon 
the  United  States  in  a  way  that  will  make 
Halley's  comet  look  like  a  wax  match." 

The  next  day  Stetson  and  the  tutor  sailed 
for  home  and  Peter  was  left  alone  to  pursue,  as 
he  supposed,  the  Order  of  the  Crescent.  On 
the  contrary,  he  found  that  the  Order  of  the 
Crescent  was  pursuing  him.  He  had  not  ap 
preciated  that,  from  underlings  and  backstair 
politicians,  an  itinerant  showman  like  Stetson 
and  the  only  son  of  an  American  Crcesus  would 
receive  very  different  treatment. 

Within  twenty-four  hours  a  fat  man  with  a 
blue-black  beard  and  diamond  rings  called  with 
Osman  to  apologize  for  the  latter.  Osman,  the 
fat  man  explained — had  been  about  to  make  a 
fatal  error.  For  Doctor  Gilman  he  had  asked 
the  Order  of  the  Crescent  of  the  fifth  class,  the 
same  class  that  had  been  given  Stetson.  The 

75 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

fifth  class,  the  fat  man  explained,  was  all  very 
well  for  tradesmen,  dragomans,  and  eunuchs, 
but  as  an  honor  for  a  savant  as  distinguished 
as  the  friend  of  Mr.  Hallo  well,  the  fourth  class 
would  hardly  be  high  enough.  The  fees,  the 
fat  man  added,  would  also  be  higher;  but,  he 
pointed  out,  it  was  worth  the  difference,  be 
cause  the  fourth  class  entitled  the  wearer  to  a 
salute  from  all  sentries. 

"  There  are  few  sentries  at  Stillwater,"  said 
Peter;  "but  I  want  the  best  and  I  want  it 
quick.  Get  me  the  fourth  class." 

The  next  morning  he  was  surprised  by  an 
early  visit  from  Stimson  of  the  embassy.  The 
secretary  was  considerably  annoyed. 

"My  dear  Hallowell,"  he  protested,  "why 
the  devil  didn't  you  tell  me  you  wanted  a 
decoration?  Of  course  the  State  department 
expressly  forbids  us  to  ask  for  one  for  our 
selves,  or  for  any  one  else.  But  what's  the 
Constitution  between  friends?  I'll  get  it  for 
you  at  once — but,  on  two  conditions:  that  you 
don't  tell  anybody  I  got  it,  and  that  you  tell 
me  why  you  want  it,  and  what  you  ever  did 
to  deserve  it." 

Instead,  Peter  explained  fully  and  so  sym 
pathetically  that  the  diplomat  demanded  that 
he,  too,  should  be  enrolled  as  one  of  the  Gilman 
Defense  Committee. 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

"Doctor  Oilman's  history,"  he  said,  "must 
be  presented  to  the  Sultan.  You  must  have 
the  five  volumes  rebound  in  red  and  green,  the 
colors  of  Mohammed,  and  with  as  much  gold 
tooling  as  they  can  carry.  I  hope,"  he  added, 
"they  are  not  soiled." 

"Not  by  me,"  Peter  assured  him. 

"I  will  take  them  myself,"  continued  Stim- 
son,  "to  Muley  Pasha,  the  minister  of  foreign 
affairs,  and  ask  him  to  present  them  to  his 
Imperial  Majesty.  He  will  promise  to  do  so, 
but  he  won't;  but  he  knows  I  know  he  won't; 
so  that  is  all  right.  And  in  return  he  will  pre 
sent  us  with  the  Order  of  the  Crescent  of  the 
third  class." 

"Going  up!"  exclaimed  Peter.  "The  third 
class.  That  will  cost  me  my  entire  letter-of- 
credit." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Stimson.  "I've  saved 
you  from  the  grafters.  It  will  cost  you  only 
what  you  pay  to  have  the  books  rebound.  And 
the  third  class  is  a  real  honor  of  which  any  one 
might  be  proud.  You  wear  it  round  your 
neck,  and  at  your  funeral  it  entitles  you  to  an 
escort  of  a  thousand  soldiers." 

"I'd  rather  put  up  with  fewer  soldiers,"  said 
Peter,  "and  wear  it  longer  round  my  neck. 
What's  the  matter  with  our  getting  the  second 
class  or  the  first  class?" 

77 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

At  such  ignorance  Stimson  could  not  repress 
a  smile. 

"The  first  class,"  he  explained  patiently,  "is 
the  Great  Grand  Cross,  and  is  given  only  to 
reigning  sovereigns.  The  second  is  called  the 
Grand  Cross,  and  is  bestowed  only  on  crowned 
princes,  prime  ministers,  and  men  of  world 
wide  fame " 

"What's  the  matter  with  Doctor  Gilman's 
being  of  world- wide  fame?"  said  Peter.  "He 
will  be  some  day,  when  Stetson  starts  boost- 
ing." 

"Some  day,"  retorted  Stimson  stiffly,  "I 
may  be  an  ambassador.  When  I  am  I  hope  to 
get  the  Grand  Cross  of  the  Crescent,  but  not 
now.  I'm  sorry  you're  not  satisfied,"  he  added 
aggrievedly.  "No  one  can  get  you  anything 
higher  than  the  third  class,  and  I  may  lose  my 
official  head  asking  for  that." 

"Nothing  is  too  good  for  old  man  Gilman," 
said  Peter,  "nor  for  you.  You  get  the  third 
class  for  him,  and  I'll  have  father  make  you 
an  ambassador." 

That  night  at  poker  at  the  club  Peter  sat 
next  to  Prince  Abdul,  who  had  come  from  a 
reception  at  the  grand  vizier's  and  still  wore 
his  decorations.  Decorations  now  fascinated 
Peter,  and  those  on  the  coat  of  the  young  prince 
he  regarded  with  wide-eyed  awe.  He  also  re- 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

garded  Abdul  with  wide-eyed  awe,  because  he 
was  the  favorite  nephew  of  the  Sultan,  and 
because  he  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  having 
the  worst  reputation  in  Turkey.  Peter  won 
dered  why.  He  always  had  found  Abdul 
charming,  distinguished,  courteous  to  the  verge 
of  humility,  most  cleverly  cynical,  most  bril 
liantly  amusing.  At  poker  he  almost  invariably 
won,  and  while  doing  so  was  so  politely  bored, 
so  indifferent  to  his  cards  and  the  cards  held 
by  others,  that  Peter  declared  he  had  never 
met  his  equal. 

In  a  pause  in  the  game,  while  some  one  tore 
the  cover  off  a  fresh  pack,  Peter  pointed  at  the 
star  of  diamonds  that  nestled  behind  the  lapel 
of  AbduPs  coat. 

"May  I  ask  what  that  is?"  said  Peter. 

The  prince  frowned  at  his  diamond  sunburst 
as  though  it  annoyed  him,  and  then  smiled  de 
lightedly. 

"It  is  an  order,"  he  said  in  a  quick  aside, 
"bestowed  only  upon  men  of  world-v/ide  fame. 
I  dined  to-night,"  he  explained,  "with  your 
charming  compatriot,  Mr.  Joseph  Stimson." 

"And  Joe  told?"  said  Peter. 

The  prince  nodded.  "Joe  told,"  he  repeated; 
"but  it  is  all  arranged.  Your  distinguished 
friend,  the  Sage  of  Stillwater,  will  receive  the 
Crescent  of  the  third  class." 

79 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

Peter's  eyes  were  still  fastened  hungrily  upon 
the  diamond  sunburst. 

"Why,"  he  demanded,  "can't  some  one  get 
him  one  like  that?" 

As  though  about  to  take  offense  the  prince 
raised  his  eyebrows,  and  then  thought  better 
of  it  and  smiled. 

"There  are  only  two  men  in  all  Turkey,"  he 
said,  "who  could  do  that." 

"And  is  the  Sultan  the  other  one?"  asked 
Peter.  The  prince  gasped  as  though  he  had 
suddenly  stepped  beneath  a  cold  shower,  and 
then  laughed  long  and  silently. 

"You  flatter  me,"  he  murmured. 

"You  know  you  could  if  you  liked!"  whis 
pered  Peter  stoutly. 

Apparently  Abdul  did  not  hear  him.  "I  will 
take  one  card,"  he  said. 

Toward  two  in  the  morning  there  was  sev 
enty-five  thousand  francs  in  the  pot,  and  all 
save  Prince  Abdul  and  Peter  had  dropped  out. 
"Will  you  divide?"  asked  the  prince. 

"Why  should  I?"  said  Peter.  "I've  got  you 
beat  now.  Do  you  raise  me  or  call?"  The 
prince  called  and  laid  down  a  full  house.  Peter 
showed  four  tens. 

"I  will  deal  you  one  hand,  double  or  quits," 
said  the  prince. 

Over  the  end  of  his  cigar  Peter  squinted  at 

80 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

the  great  heap  of  mother-of-pearl  counters  and 
gold-pieces  and  bank-notes. 

"You  will  pay  me  double  what  is  on  the 
table,"  he  said,  "or  you  quit  owing  me  nothing." 

The  prince  nodded. 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Peter. 

The  prince  dealt  them  each  a  hand  and  dis 
carded  two  cards.  Peter  held  a  seven,  a  pair 
of  kings,  and  a  pair  of  fours.  Hoping  to  draw 
another  king,  which  might  give  him  a  three 
higher  than  the  three  held  by  Abdul,  he  threw 
away  the  seven  and  the  lower  pair.  He  caught 
another  king.  The  prince  showed  three  queens 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Peter,  leaning  toward  him,  spoke  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  mouth. 

"I'll  make  you  a  sporting  proposition,"  he 
murmured.  "You  owe  me  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  francs.  "I'll  stake  that  against  what 
only  two  men  in' the  empire  can  give  me." 

The  prince  allowed  his  eyes  to  travel  slowly 
round  the  circle  of  the  table.  But  the  puzzled 
glances  of  the  other  players  showed  that  to 
them  Peter's  proposal  conveyed  no  meaning. 

The  prince  smiled  cynically. 

"For  yourself?"  he  demanded. 

"For  Doctor  Gilman,"  said  Peter. 

"We  will  cut  for  deal  and  one  hand  will  de 
cide,"  said  the  prince.  His  voice  dropped  to  a 

81 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

whisper.  "And  no  one  must  ever  know,"  he 
warned. 

Peter  also  could  be  cynical. 

"Not  even  the  Sultan,"  he  said. 

Abdul  won  the  deal  and  gave  himself  a  very 
good  hand.  But  the  hand  he  dealt  Peter  was 
the  better  one. 

The  prince  was  a  good  loser.  The  next  after 
noon  the  Gazette  Officielle  announced  that  upon 
Doctor  Henry  Gilman,  professor  emeritus  of 
the  University  of  Stillwater,  U.  S.  A.,  the  Sul 
tan  had  been  graciously  pleased  to  confer  the 
Grand  Cross  of  the  Order  of  the  Crescent. 

Peter  flashed  the  great  news  to  Stetson.  The 
cable  caught  him  at  Quarantine.  It  read: 
"Captured  Crescent,  Grand  Cross.  Get  busy." 

But  before  Stetson  could  get  busy  the  cam 
paign  of  publicity  had  been  brilliantly  opened 
from  Constantinople.  Prince  Abdul,  although 
pitchforked  into  the  Gilman  Defense  Commit 
tee,  proved  himself  one  of  its  most  enthusiastic 
members. 

"For  me  it  becomes  a  case  of  noblesse  oblige" 
he  declared.  "If  it  is  worth  doing  at  all  it  is 
worth  doing  well.  To-day  the  Sultan  will 
command  that  the  "Rise  and  Fall"  be  trans 
lated  into  Arabic,  and  that  it  be  placed  in  the 
national  library.  Moreover,  the  University  of 
Constantinople,  the  College  of  Salonica,  and 

82 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

the  National  Historical  Society  have  each 
elected  Doctor  Gilman  an  honorary  member. 
I  proposed  him,  the  Patriarch  of  Mesopotamia 
seconded  him.  And  the  Turkish  ambassador 
in  America  has  been  instructed  to  present  the 
insignia  with  his  own  hands." 

Nor  was  Peter  or  Stimson  idle.  To  assist 
Stetson  in  his  press-work,  and  to  further  the 
idea  that  all  Europe  was  now  clamoring  for  the 
"Rise  and  Fall,"  Peter  paid  an  impecunious  but 
over-educated  dragoman  to  translate  it  into 
five  languages,  and  Stimson  officially  wrote  of 
this,  and  of  the  bestowal  of  the  Crescent  to  the 
State  Department.  He  pointed  out  that  not 
since  General  Grant  had  passed  through  Europe 
had  the  Sultan  so  highy  honored  an  American. 
He  added  he  had  been  requested  by  the  grand 
vizier — who  had  been  requested  by  Prince 
Abdul — to  request  the  State  Department  to 
inform  Doctor  Gilman  of  these  high  honors.  A 
request  from  such  a  source  was  a  command 
and,  as  desired,  the  State  Department  wrote  as 
requested  by  the  grand  vizier  to  Doctor  Gil 
man,  and  tendered  congratulations.  The  fact 
was  sent  out  briefly  from  Washington  by  Asso 
ciated  Press.  This  official  recognition  by  the 
Government  and  by  the  newspapers  was  all 
and  more  than  Stetson  wanted.  He  took  off 
his  coat  and  with  a  megaphone,  rather  than  a 

83 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

pen,  told  the  people  of  the  United  States  who 
Doctor  Gilman  was,  who  the  Sultan  was,  what 
a  Grand  Cross  was,  and  why  America's  greatest 
historian  was  not  without  honor  save  in  his 
own  country.  Columns  of  this  were  paid  for 
and  appeared  as  "patent  Jnsides,"  with  a  por 
trait  of  Doctor  Gilman  taken  from  the  Still- 
water  College  Annual,  and  a  picture  of  the  Grand 
Cross  drawn  from  imagination,  in  eight  hundred 
newspapers  of  the  Middle,  Western,  and  East 
ern  States.  Special  articles,  paragraphs,  por 
traits,  and  pictures  of  the  Grand  Cross  followed, 
and,  using  Stillwater  as  his  base,  Stetson  contin 
ued  to  flood  the  country.  Young  Hines,  the 
local  correspondent,  acting  under  instructions 
by  cable  from  Peter,  introduced  him  to  Doctor 
Gilman  as  a  traveller  who  lectured  on  Turkey, 
and  one  who  was  a  humble  admirer  of  the 
author  of  the  "Rise  and  Fall."  Stetson,  having 
studied  it  as  a  student  crams  an  examination, 
begged  that  he  might  sit  at  the  feet  of  the  mas 
ter.  And  for  several  evenings,  actually  at  his 
feet,  on  the  steps  of  the  ivy-covered  cottage, 
the  disguised  press-agent  drew  from  the  un 
worldly  and  unsuspecting  scholar  the  simple 
story  of  his  life.  To  this,  still  in  his  character 
as  disciple  and  student,  he  added  photographs 
he  himself  made  of  the  master,  of  the  master's 
ivy-covered  cottage,  of  his  favorite  walk  across 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

the  campus,  of  the  great  historian  at  work  at 
his  desk,  at  work  in  his  rose  garden,  at  play 
with  his  wife  on  the  croquet  lawn.  These  he 
held  until  the  insignia  should  be  actually  pre 
sented.  This  pleasing  duty  fell  to  the  Turkish 
ambassador,  who,  much  to  his  astonishment, 
had  received  instructions  to  proceed  to  Still- 
water,  Massachusetts,  a  place  of  which  he  had 
never  heard,  and  present  to  a  Doctor  Gilman, 
of  whom  he  had  never  heard,  the  Grand  Cross 
of  the  Crescent.  As  soon  as  the  insignia  ar 
rived  in  the  official  mail-bag  a  secretary  brought 
it  from  Washington  to  Boston,  and  the  am 
bassador  travelled  down  from  Bar  Harbor  to 
receive  it,  and  with  the  secretary  took  the  local 
train  to  Stillwater. 

The  reception  extended  to  him  there  is  still 
remembered  by  the  ambassador  as  one  of  the 
happiest  incidents  of  his  distinguished  career. 
Never  since  he  came  to  represent  his  Imperial 
Majesty  in  the  Western  republic  had  its  bar 
barians  greeted  him  in  a  manner  in  any  way  so 
nearly  approaching  his  own  idea  of  what  was 
his  due. 

"This  ambassador,"  Hines  had  explained  to 
the  mayor  of  Stillwater,  who  was  also  the  pro 
prietor  of  its  largest  department  store,  "is  the 
personal  representative  of  the  Sultan.  So  we've 
got  to  treat  him  right." 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

"It's  exactly,"  added  Stetson,  "as  though  the 
Sultan  himself  were  coming." 

"And  so  few  crowned  heads  visit  Stillwater," 
continued  Hines,  "that  we  ought  to  show  we 
appreciate  this  one,  especially  as  he  comes  to 
pay  the  highest  honor  known  to  Europe  to  one 
of  our  townsmen." 

The  mayor  chewed  nervously  on  his  cigar. 

"What'd  I  better  do?"  he  asked. 

"Mr.  Stetson  here,"  Hines  pointed  out,  "has 
lived  in  Turkey,  and  he  knows  what  they  ex 
pect.  Maybe  he  will  help  us." 

"Will  you?"  begged  the  mayor. 

"I  will,"  said  Stetson. 

Then  they  visited  the  college  authorities. 
Chancellor  Black  and  most  of  the  faculty  were 
on  their  vacations.  But  there  were  half  a  dozen 
professors  still  in  their  homes  around  the  cam 
pus,  and  it  was  pointed  out  to  them  that  the 
coming  honor  to  one  lately  of  their  number 
reflected  glory  upon  the  college  and  upon  them, 
and  that  they  should  take  official  action. 

It  was  also  suggested  that  for  photographic 
purposes  they  should  wear  their  academic  robes, 
caps,  and  hoods.  To  these  suggestions,  with 
alacrity — partly  because  they  all  loved  Doctor 
Gilman  and  partly  because  they  had  never  been 
photographed  by  a  moving-picture  machine — 
they  all  agreed.  So  it  came  about  that  when 

86 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

the  ambassador,  hot  and  cross  and  dusty, 
stepped  off  the  way-train  at  Still  water  station, 
he  found  to  his  delighted  amazement  a  red 
carpet  stretching  to  a  perfectly  new  automobile, 
a  company  of  the  local  militia  presenting  arms, 
a  committee,  consisting  of  the  mayor  in  a  high 
hat  and  white  gloves  and  three  professors  in 
gowns  and  colored  hoods,  and  the  Stillwater 
Silver  Cornet  Band  playing  what,  after  several 
repetitions,  the  ambassador  was  graciously 
pleased  to  recognize  as  his  national  anthem. 

The  ambassador  forgot  that  he  was  hot  and 
cross.  He  forgot  that  he  was  dusty.  His  face 
radiated  satisfaction  and  perspiration.  Here  at 
last  were  people  who  appreciated  him  and  his 
high  office.  And  as  the  mayor  helped  him  into 
the  automobile,  and  those  students  who  lived 
in  Stillwater  welcomed  him  with  strange  yells, 
and  the  moving-picture  machine  aimed  at  him 
point  blank,  he  beamed  with  condescension. 
But  inwardly  he  was  ill  at  ease. 

Inwardly  he  was  chastising  himself  for  hav 
ing,  through  his  ignorance  of  America,  failed  to 
appreciate  the  importance  of  the  man  he  had 
come  to  honor.  When  he  remembered  he  had 
never  even  heard  of  Doctor  Gilman  he  blushed 
with  confusion.  And  when  he  recollected  that 
he  had  been  almost  on  the  point  of  refusing  to 
come  to  Stillwater,  that  he  had  considered  leav- 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

ing  the  presentation  to  his  secretary,  he  shud 
dered.  What  might  not  the  Sultan  have  done 
to  him  !  What  a  narrow  escape ! 

Attracted  by  the  band,  by  the  sight  of  their 
fellow  townsmen  in  khaki,  by  the  sight  of  the 
stout  gentleman  in  the  red  fez,  by  a  tremendous 
liking  and  respect  for  Doctor  Gilman,  the  en 
tire  town  of  Stillwater  gathered  outside  his 
cottage.  And  inside,  the  old  professor,  trem 
bling  and  bewildered  and  yet  strangely  happy, 
bowed  his  shoulders  while  the  ambassador 
slipped  over  them  the  broad  green  scarf  and 
upon  his  only  frock  coat  pinned  the  diamond 
sunburst.  In  woful  embarrassment  Doctor  Gil 
man  smiled  and  bowed  and  smiled,  and  then, 
as  the  delighted  mayor  of  Stillwater  shouted, 
"Speech,"  in  sudden  panic  he  reached  out  his 
hand  quickly  and  covertly,  and  found  the  hand 
of  his  wife. 

"Now,  then,  three  long  ones!"  yelled  the 
cheer  leader.  "Now,  then,  'See  the  Conquer 
ing  Hero!'"  yelled  the  bandmaster.  "Atten 
tion!  Present  arms!"  yelled  the  militia  cap 
tain;  and  the  townspeople  and  the  professors 
applauded  and  waved  their  hats  and  handker 
chiefs.  And  Doctor  Gilman  and  his  wife,  he 
frightened  and  confused,  she  happy  and  proud, 
and  taking  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course,  stood 
arm  in  arm  in  the  frame  of  honeysuckles  and 

88 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

bowed  and  bowed  and  bowed.  And  the  am 
bassador  so  far  unbent  as  to  drink  champagne, 
which  appeared  mysteriously  in  tubs  of  ice  from 
the  rear  of  the  ivy-covered  cottage,  with  the 
mayor,  with  the  wives  of  the  professors,  with 
the  students,  with  the  bandmaster.  Indeed,  so 
often  did  he  unbend  that  when  the  perfectly 
new  automobile  conveyed  him  back  to  the 
Touraine,  he  was  sleeping  happily  and  smiling 
in  his  sleep. 

Peter  had  arrived  in  America  at  the  same 
time  as  had  the  insignia,  but  Hines  and  Stetson 
would  not  let  him  show  himself  in  Stillwater. 
They  were  afraid  if  all  three  conspirators  fore 
gathered  they  might  inadvertently  drop  some 
clew  that  would  lead  to  suspicion  and  discovery. 

So  Peter  worked  from  New  York,  and  his 
first  act  was  anonymously  to  supply  his  father 
and  Chancellor  Black  with  all  the  newspaper 
accounts  of  the  great  celebration  at  Stillwater. 
When  Doctor  Black  read  them  he  choked. 
Never  before  had  Stillwater  College  been 
brought  so  prominently  before  the  public,  and 
never  before  had  her  president  been  so  utterly 
and  completely  ignored.  And  what  made  it 
worse  was  that  he  recognized  that  even  had  he 
been  present  he  could  not  have  shown  his  face. 
How  could  he,  who  had,  as  every  one  connected 
with  the  college  now  knew,  out  of  spite  and 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

without  cause,  dismissed  an  old  and  faithful 
servant,  join  in  chanting  his  praises.  He  only 
hoped  his  patron,  Hallowell  senior,  might 
not  hear  of  Gilman's  triumph.  But  Hallowell 
senior  heard  little  of  anything  else.  At  his 
office,  at  his  clubs,  on  the  golf-links,  every  one 
he  met  congratulated  him  on  the  high  and 
peculiar  distinction  that  had  come  to  his  pet 
college. 

;'You  certainly  have  the  darnedest  luck  in 
backing  the  right  horse,"  exclaimed  a  rival 
pork-packer  enviously.  "Now  if  I  pay  a  hun 
dred  thousand  for  a  Velasquez  it  turns  out  to 
be  a  bad  copy  worth  thirty  dollars,  but  you 
pay  a  professor  three  thousand  and  he  brings 
you  in  half  a  million  dollars'  worth  of  free 
advertising.  Why,  this  Doctor  Gilman's  doing 
as  much  for  your  college  as  Doctor  Osier  did 
for  Johns  Hopkins  or  as  Walter  Camp  does 
for  Yale." 

Mr.  Hallowell  received  these  congratulations 
as  gracefully  as  he  was  able,  and  in  secret  raged 
at  Chancellor  Black.  Each  day  his  rage  in 
creased.  It  seemed  as  though  there  would 
never  be  an  end  to  Doctor  Gilman.  The  stone 
he  had  rejected  had  become  the  corner-stone  of 
Stillwater.  Whenever  he  opened  a  newspaper 
he  felt  like  exclaiming:  "Will  no  one  rid  me 
of  this  pestilent  fellow?"  For  the  "Rise  and 

90 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

Fall,"  in  an  edition  de  luxe  limited  to  two 
hundred  copies,  was  being  bought  up  by  all 
his  book-collecting  millionaire  friends;  a  popu 
lar  edition  was  on  view  in  the  windows  of  every 
book-shop;  it  was  offered  as  a  prize  to  subscrib 
ers  to  all  the  more  sedate  magazines,  and  the 
name  and  features  of  the  distinguished  author 
had  become  famous  and  familiar.  Not  a  day 
passed  but  that  some  new  honor,  at  least  so 
the  newspapers  stated,  was  thrust  upon  him. 
Paragraphs  announced  that  he  was  to  be  the 
next  exchange  professor  to  Berlin;  that  in  May 
he  was  to  lecture  at  the  Sorbonne;  that  in 
June  he  was  to  receive  a  degree  from  Ox 
ford. 

A  fresh-water  college  on  one  of  the  Great 
Lakes  leaped  to  the  front  by  offering  him  the 
chair  of  history  at  that  seat  of  learning  at  a 
salary  of  five  thousand  dollars  a  year.  Some 
of  the  honors  that  had  been  thrust  upon  Doc 
tor  Gilman  existed  only  in  the  imagination  of 
Peter  and  Stetson,  but  this  offer  happened  to 
be  genuine. 

"Doctor  Gilman  rejected  it  without  consid 
eration.  He  read  the  letter  from  the  trustees 
to  his  wife  and  shook  his  head. 

"We  could  not  be  happy  away  from  Still- 
water,"  he  said.  "We  have  only  a  month 
more  in  the  cottage,  but  after  that  we  still  can 

91 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

walk  past  it;  we  can  look  into  the  garden  and 
see  the  flowers  she  planted.  We  can  visit  the 
place  where  she  lies.  But  if  we  went  away  we 
should  be  lonely  and  miserable  for  her,  and  she 
would  be  lonely  for  us." 

Mr.  Hallowell  could  not  know  why  Doctor 
Gilman  had  refused  to  leave  Stillwater;  but 
when  he  read  that  the  small  Eastern  college  at 
which  Doctor  Gilman  had  graduated  had  offered 
to  m&ke  him  its  president,  his  jealousy  knew 
no  bounds. 

He  telegraphed  to  Black:  "Reinstate  Gilman 
at  once;  offer  him  six  thousand — offer  him  what 
ever  he  wants,  but  make  him  promise  for  no 
consideration  to  leave  Stillwater  he  is  only 
member  faculty  ever  brought  any  credit  to  the 
college  if  we  lose  him  I'll  hold  you  responsi 
ble." 

The  next  morning,  hat  in  hand,  smiling  in 
gratiatingly,  the  chancellor  called  upon  Doctor 
Gilman  and  ate  so  much  humble  pie  that  for  a 
week  he  suffered  acute  mental  indigestion.  But 
little  did  Hallowell  senior  care  for  that.  He 
had  got  what  he  wanted.  Doctor  Gilman,  the 
distinguished,  was  back  in  the  faculty,  and  had 
made  only  one  condition — that  he  might  live 
until  he  died  in  the  ivy-covered  cottage. 

Two  weeks  later,  when  Peter  arrived  at  Still- 
water  to  take  the  history  examination,  which, 

92 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

should  he  pass  it,  would  give  him  his  degree, 
he  found  on  every  side  evidences  of  the  "world 
wide  fame"  he  himself  had  created.  The  news 
stand  at  the  depot,  the  book-stores,  the  drug 
stores,  the  picture-shops,  all  spoke  of  Doctor 
Gilman;  and  postcards  showing  the  ivy-covered 
cottage,  photographs  and  enlargements  of  Doc 
tor  Gilman,  advertisements  of  the  different 
editions  of  "the"  history  proclaimed  his  fame. 
Peter,  fascinated  by  the  success  of  his  own 
handiwork,  approached  the  ivy-covered  cottage 
in  a  spirit  almost  of  awe.  But  Mrs.  Gilman 
welcomed  him  with  the  same  kindly,  sympa 
thetic  smile  with  which  she  always  gave  courage 
to  the  unhappy  ones  coming  up  for  examina 
tions,  and  Doctor  Gilman's  high  honors  in  no 
way  had  spoiled  his  gentle  courtesy. 

The  examination  was  in  writing,  and  when 
Peter  had  handed  in  his  papers  Doctor  Gilman 
asked  him  if  he  would  prefer  at  once  to  know 
the  result. 

"I  should  indeed!"  Peter  assured  him. 

"Then  I  regret  to  tell  you,  Hallowell,"  said 
the  professor,  "that  you  have  not  passed.  I 
cannot  possibly  give  you  a  mark  higher  than 
five."  In  real  sympathy  the  sage  of  Stillwater 
raised  his  eyes,  but  to  his  great  astonishment 
he  found  that  Peter,  so  far  from  being  cast 
down  or  taking  offense,  was  smiling  delightedly, 

93 


THE  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  CRESCENT 

much  as  a  fond  parent  might  smile  upon  the 
precocious  act  of  a  beloved  child. 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Doctor  Gilman  gently, 
"that  this  summer  you  did  not  work  very  hard 
for  your  degree!5* 

Peter  laughed  and  picked  up  his  hat. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  Professor,"  he  said, 
"you're  right.  I  got  working  for  something 
worth  while — and  I  forgot  about  the  degree." 


94 


THE  INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

THIS  is  the  true  inside  story  of  the  invasion 
of  England  in  1911  by  the  Germans,  and  why 
it  failed.  I  got  my  data  from  Baron  von  Gott 
lieb,  at  the  time  military  attache  of  the  German 
Government  with  the  Russian  army  in  the 
second  Russian-Japanese  War,  when  Russia 
drove  Japan  out  of  Manchuria,  and  reduced 
her  to  a  third-rate  power.  He  told  me  of  his 
part  in  the  invasion  as  we  sat,  after  the  bom 
bardment  of  Tokio,  on  the  ramparts  of  the 
Emperor's  palace,  watching  the  walls  of  the 
paper  houses  below  us  glowing  and  smoking 
like  the  ashes  of  a  prairie  fire. 

Two  years  before,  at  the  time  of  the  inva 
sion,  von  Gottlieb  had  been  Carl  Schultz,  the 
head-waiter  at  the  East  Cliff  Hotel  at  Cromer, 
and  a  spy. 

The  other  end  of  the  story  came  to  me 
through  Lester  Ford,  the  London  correspond 
ent  of  the  New  York  Republic.  They  gave 
me  permission  to  tell  it  in  any  fashion  I  pleased, 
and  it  is  here  set  down  for  the  first  time. 

In  telling  the  story,  my  conscience  is  not  in 
the  least  disturbed,  for  I  have  yet  to  find  any 
one  who  will  believe  it. 

95 


THE   INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

What  led  directly  to  the  invasion  was  that 
some  week-end  guest  of  the  East  Cliff  Hotel 
left  a  copy  of  "The  Riddle  of  the  Sands"  in  the 
coffee-room,  where  von  Gottlieb  found  it;  and 
the  fact  that  Ford  attended  the  Shakespeare 
Ball.  Had  neither  of  these  events  taken  place, 
the  German  flag  might  now  be  flying  over 
Buckingham  Palace.  And,  then  again,  it  might 
not. 

As  every  German  knows,  "The  Riddle  of  the 
Sands"  is  a  novel  written  by  a  very  clever 
Englishman  in  which  is  disclosed  a  plan  for  the 
invasion  of  his  country.  According  to  this 
plan  an  army  of  infantry  was  to  be  embarked 
in  lighters,  towed  by  shallow-draft,  sea-going 
tugs,  and  despatched  simultaneously  from  the 
seven  rivers  that  form  the  Frisian  Isles.  From 
there  they  were  to  be  convoyed  by  battle-ships 
two  hundred  and  forty  miles  through  the  North 
Sea,  and  thrown  upon  the  coast  of  Norfolk 
somewhere  between  the  Wash  and  Mundesley. 
The  fact  that  this  coast  is  low-lying  and  bor 
dered  by  sand  flats  which  at  low  water  are  dry, 
that  England  maintains  no  North  Sea  squadron, 
and  that  her  nearest  naval  base  is  at  Chatham, 
seem  to  point  to  it  as  the  spot  best  adapted  for 
such  a  raid. 

What  von  Gottlieb  thought  was  evidenced 
by  the  fact  that  as  soon  as  he  read  the  book  he 

96 


THE   INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

mailed  it  to  the  German  Ambassador  in  Lon 
don,  and  under  separate  cover  sent  him  a  let 
ter.  In  this  he  said:  "  I  suggest  your  Excellency 
brings  this  book  to  the  notice  of  a  certain  royal 
personage,  and  of  the  Strategy  Board.  General 
Bolivar  said,  'When  you  want  arms,  take  them 
from  the  enemy/  Does  not  this  also  follow 
when  you  want  ideas?" 

What  the  Strategy  Board  thought  of  the 
plan  is  a  matter  of  history.  This  was  in  1910. 
A  year  later,  during  the  coronation  week,  Lester 
Ford  went  to  Clarkson's  to  rent  a  monk's  robe 
in  which  to  appear  at  the  Shakespeare  Ball, 
and  while  the  assistant  departed  in  search  of 
the  robe,  Ford  was  left  alone  in  a  small  room 
hung  with  full-length  mirrors  and  shelves,  and 
packed  with  the  uniforms  that  Clarkson  rents 
for  Covent  Garden  balls  and  amateur  theatri 
cals.  While  waiting,  Ford  gratified  a  long, 
secretly  cherished  desire  to  behold  himself  as  a 
military  man,  by  trying  on  all  the  uniforms  on 
the  lower  shelves;  and  as  a  result,  when  the 
assistant  returned,  instead  of  finding  a  young 
American  in  English  clothes  and  a  high  hat,  he 
was  confronted  by  a  German  officer  in  a  spiked 
helmet  fighting  a  duel  with  himself  in  the  mir 
ror.  The  assistant  retreated  precipitately,  and 
Ford,  conscious  that  he  appeared  ridiculous, 
tried  to  turn  the  tables  by  saying,  "Does  a 

97 


THE   INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

German  uniform  always  affect  a  Territorial  like 
that?" 

The  assistant  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"It  did  give  me  quite  a  turn,"  he  said.  "It's 
this  talk  of  invasion,  I  fancy.  But  for  a  fact, 
sir,  if  I  was  a  Coast  Guard,  and  you  came  along 
the  beach  dressed  like  that,  I'd  take  a  shot  at 
you,  just  on  the  chance,  anyway." 

"And,  quite  right,  too!"  said  Ford. 

He  was  wondering  when  the  invasion  did 
come  whether  he  would  stick  at  his  post  in 
London  and  dutifully  forward  the  news  to  his 
paper,  or  play  truant  and  as  a  war  correspond 
ent  watch  the  news  in  the  making.  So  the 
words  of  Mr.  Clarkson's  assistant  did  not  sink 
in.  But  a  few  weeks  later  young  Major  Bellew 
recalled  them.  Bellew  was  giving  a  dinner  on 
the  terrace  of  the  Savoy  Restaurant.  His 
guests  were  his  nephew,  young  Herbert,  who 
was  only  five  years  younger  than  his  uncle,  and 
Herbert's  friend  Birrell,  an  Irishman,  both  in 
their  third  term  at  the  university.  After  five 
years'  service  in  India,  Bellew  had  spent  the 
last  "Eights"  week  at  Oxford,  and  was  com 
plaining  bitterly  that  since  his  day  the  under 
graduate  had  deteriorated.  He  had  found  him 
serious,  given  to  study,  far  too  well  behaved. 
Instead  of  Jorrocks,  he  read  Galsworthy;  in 
stead  of  "wines"  he  found  pleasure  in  debating 


THE   INVASION  OF   ENGLAND 

clubs  where  he  discussed  socialism.  Ragging, 
practical  jokes,  ingenious  hoaxes,  that  once 
were  wont  to  set  England  in  a  roar,  were  a  lost 
art.  His  undergraduate  guests  combated  these 
charges  fiercely.  His  criticisms  they  declared 
unjust  and  without  intelligence. 

"You're  talking  rot !"  said  his  dutiful  nephew. 
14 Take  Phil  here,  for  example.  I've  roomed 
with  him  three  years  and  I  can  testify  that  he 
has  never  opened  a  book.  He  never  heard  of 
Galsworthy  until  you  spoke  of  him.  And  you 
can  see  for  yourself  his  table  manners  are  quite 
as  bad  as  yours!" 

"Worse!"  assented  Birrell  loyally. 

"And  as  for  ragging!  What  rags,  in  your 
day,  were  as  good  as  ours;  as  the  Carrie  Nation 
rag,  for  instance,  when  five  hundred  people  sat 
through  a  temperance  lecture  and  never  guessed 
they  were  listening  to  a  man  from  Balliol?" 

"And  the  Abyssinian  Ambassador  rag!" 
cried  Herbert.  "What  price  that?  When  the 
Dreadnought  manned  the  yards  for  him  and 
gave  him  seventeen  guns.  That  was  an  Ox 
ford  rag,  and  carried  through  by  Oxford  men. 
The  country  hasn't  stopped  laughing  yet.  You 
give  us  a  rag!"  challenged  Herbert.  "Make  it 
as  hard  as  you  like;  something  risky,  something 
that  will  make  the  country  sit  up,  something 
that  will  send  us  all  to  jail,  and  Phil  and  I  will 

99 


THE  INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

put  it  through  whether  it  takes  one  man  or  a 
dozen.  Go  on,"  he  persisted,  "and  L  bet  we 
can  get  fifty  volunteers  right  here  in  town  and 
all  of  them  undergraduates." 

"Give  you  the  idea,  yes!"  mocked  Bellew, 
trying  to  gain  time.  "That's  just  what  I  say. 
You  boys  to-day  are  so  dull.  You  lack  initia 
tive.  It's  the  idea  that  counts.  Anybody  can 
do  the  acting.  That's  just  amateur  theatri 
cals!" 

"Is  it!"  snorted  Herbert.  "If  you  want  to 
know  what  stage  fright  is,  just  go  on  board  a 
British  battle-ship  with  your  face  covered  with 
burnt  cork  and  insist  on  being  treated  like  an 
ambassador.  You'll  find  it's  a  little  different 
from  a  first  night  with  the  Simla  Thespians!" 

Ford  had  no  part  in  the  debate.  He  had 
been  smoking  comfortably  and  with  well-timed 
nods,  impartially  encouraging  each  disputant. 
But  now  he  suddenly  laid  his  cigar  upon  his 
plate,  and,  after  glancing  quickly  about  him, 
leaned  eagerly  forward.  They  were  at  the  cor 
ner  table  of  the  terrace,  and,  as  it  was  now 
past  nine  o'clock,  the  other  diners  had  departed 
to  the  theatres  and  they  were  quite  alone. 
Below  them,  outside  the  open  windows,  were 
the  trees  of  the  embankment,  and  beyond,  the 
Thames,  blocked  to  the  west  by  the  great 
shadows  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  lit  only 

100 


THE  INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

by  the  flame  in  the  tower  that '  showed  the 
Lower  House  was  still  sitting. 

"I'll  give  you  an  idea  for  a  rag,"  whispered 
Ford.  "One  that  is  risky,  that  will  make  the 
country  sit  up,  that  ought  to  land  you  in  jail? 
Have  you  read  'The  Riddle  of  the  Sands'?" 

Bellew  and  Herbert  nodded;  Birrell  made  no 
sign. 

"Don't  mind  him,"  exclaimed  Herbert  im 
patiently.  "  He  never  reads  anything !  Go  on !" 

"It's  the  book  most  talked  about,"  explained 
Ford.  "And  what  else  is  most  talked  about?" 
He  answered  his  own  question.  "The  landing 
of  the  Germans  in  Morocco  and  the  chance  of 
war.  Now,  I  ask  you,  with  that  book  in  every 
body's  mind,  and  the  war  scare  in  everybody's 
mind,  what  would  happen  if  German  soldiers 
appeared  to-night  on  the  Norfolk  coast  just 
where  the  book  says  they  will  appear?  Not 
one  soldier,  but  dozens  of  soldiers;  not  in  one 
place,  but  in  twenty  places?" 

"What  would  happen?"  roared  Major  Bel- 
lew  loyally.  "The  Boy  Scouts  would  fall  out 
of  bed  and  kick  them  into  the  sea !" 

"Shut  up !"  snapped  his  nephew  irreverently. 
He  shook  Ford  by  the  arm.  "How?"  he  de 
manded  breathlessly.  "How  are  we  to  do  it? 
It  would  take  hundreds  of  men." 

"Two  men,"  corrected  Ford,  "and  a  third 
101 


THE   INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

to'di-ive  the  car.  I  thought  it  out  one  day 
at  Clarkson's  when  I  came  across  a  lot  of  Ger 
man  uniforms.  I  thought  of  it  as  a  newspaper 
story,  as  a  trick  to  find  out  how  prepared  you 
people  are  to  meet  invasion.  And  when  you 
said  just  now  that  you  wanted  a  chance  to  go 
to  jail " 

"What's  your  plan?"  interrupted  Birrell. 

"We  would  start  just  before  dawn — "  began 
Ford. 

"We?"  demanded  Herbert.  "Are  you  in 
this?" 

"Am  /  in  it?"  cried  Ford  indignantly.  "It's 
my  own  private  invasion !  I'm  letting  you 
boys  in  on  the  ground  floor.  If  I  don't  go, 
there  won't  be  any  invasion!" 

The  two  pink-cheeked  youths  glanced  at 
each  other  inquiringly  and  then  nodded. 

"We  accept  your  services,  sir,"  said  Birrell 
gravely.  "What's  your  plan?" 

In  astonishment  Major  Bellew  glanced  from 
one  to  the  other  and  then  slapped  the  table 
with  his  open  palm.  His  voice  shook  with 
righteous  indignation. 

"Of  all  the  preposterous,  outrageous —  Are 
you  mad?"  he  demanded.  "Do  you  suppose 
for  one  minute  I  will  allow " 

His  nephew  shrugged  his  shoulders  and,  ris 
ing,  pushed  back  his  chair. 

102 


THE   INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

"Oh,  you  go  to  the  devil!"  he  exclaimed 
cheerfully.  "  Come  on,  Ford,"  he  said.  "  We'll 
find  some  place  where  uncle  can't  hear  us." 

Two  days  later  a  touring  car  carrying  three 
young  men,  in  the  twenty-one  miles  between 
Wells  and  Cromer,  broke  down  eleven  times. 
Each  time  this  misfortune  befell  them  one 
young  man  scattered  tools  in  the  road  and  on 
his  knees  hammered  ostentatiously  at  the  tin 
hood;  and  the  other  two  occupants  of  the  car 
sauntered  to  the  beach.  There  they  chucked 
pebbles  at  the  waves  and  then  slowly  retraced 
their  steps.  Each  time  the  route  by  which 
they  returned  was  different  from  the  one  by 
which  they  had  set  forth.  Sometimes  they 
followed  the  beaten  path  down  the  cliff  or,  as 
it  chanced  to  be,  across  the  marshes;  sometimes 
they  slid  down  the  face  of  the  cliff;  sometimes 
they  lost  themselves  behind  the  hedges  and 
in  the  lanes  of  the  villages.  But  when  they 
again  reached  the  car  the  procedure  of  each 
was  alike — each  produced  a  pencil  and  on  the 
face  of  his  "Half  Inch"  road  map  traced 
strange,  fantastic  signs. 

At  lunch-time  they  stopped  at  the  East  Cliff 
Hotel  at  Cromer  and  made  numerous  and  triv 
ial  inquiries  about  the  Cromer  golf  links.  They 
had  come,  they  volunteered,  from  Ely  for  a  day 

103 


THE   INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

of  sea-bathing  and  golf;  they  were  returning 
after  dinner.  The  head-waiter  of  the  East  Cliff 
Hotel  gave  them  the  information  they  desired. 
He  was  an  intelligent  head-waiter,  young,  and 
of  pleasant,  not  to  say  distinguished,  bearing. 
i~»  a  frock  coat  he  might  easily  have  been  mis 
taken  for  something  even  more  important  than 
a  head-waiter — for  a  German  riding-master,  a 
leader  of  a  Hungarian  band,  a  manager  of  a 
Ritz  hotel.  But  he  was  not  above  his  station. 
He  even  assisted  the  porter  in  carrying  the  coats 
and  golf  bags  of  the  gentlemen  from  the  car  to 
the  coffee-room  where,  with  the  intuition  of 
the  homing  pigeon,  the  three  strangers  had, 
unaided,  found  their  way.  As  Carl  Schultz 
followed,  carrying  the  dust-coats,  a  road  map 
fell  from  the  pocket  of  one  of  them  to  the  floor. 
Carl  Schultz  picked  it  up,  and  was  about  to 
replace  it,  when  his  eyes  were  held  by  notes 
scrawled  roughly  in  pencil.  With  an  expres 
sion  that  no  longer  was  that  of  a  head-waiter, 
Carl  cast  one  swift  glance  about  him  and  then 
slipped  into  the  empty  coat-room  and  locked 
the  door.  Five  minutes  later,  with  a  smile  that 
played  uneasily  over  a  face  grown  gray  with 
anxiety,  Carl  presented  the  map  to  the  tallest 
of  the  three  strangers.  It  was  open  so  that 
the  pencil  marks  were  most  obvious.  By  his 
accent  it  was  evident  the  tallest  of  the  three 
strangers  was  an  American. 

104 


THE  INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

"What  the  devil!"  he  protested;  "which  of 
you  boys  has  been  playing  hob  with  my  map?'* 

For  just  an  instant  the  two  pink-cheeked  ones 
regarded  him  with  disfavor;  until,  for  just  an 
instant,  his  eyebrows  rose  and,  with  a  glance, 
he  signified  the  waiter. 

"Oh,  that!"  exclaimed  the  younger  one. 
"The  Automobile  Club  asked  us  to  mark  down 
petrol  stations.  Those  marks  mean  that's  where 
you  can  buy  petrol." 

The  head-waiter  breathed  deeply.  With  an 
assured  and  happy  countenance,  he  departed 
and,  for  the  two-hundredth  time  that  day, 
looked  from  the  windows  of  the  dining-room 
out  over  the  tumbling  breakers  to  the  gray 
stretch  of  sea.  As  though  fearful  that  his  face 
would  expose  his  secret,  he  glanced  carefully 
about  him  and  then,  assured  he  was  alone, 
leaned  eagerly  forward,  scanning  the  empty, 
tossing  waters. 

In  his  mind's  eye  he  beheld  rolling  tug-boats 
straining  against  long  lines  of  scows,  against 
the  dead  weight  of  field-guns,  against  the  pull 
of  thousands  of  motionless,  silent  figures,  each 
in  khaki,  each  in  a  black  leather  helmet,  each 
with  one  hundred  and  fifty  rounds. 

In  his  own  language  Carl  Schultz  reproved 
himself. 

"Patience,"  he  muttered;  "patience!  By 
ten  to-night  all  will  be  dark.  There  will  be  no 

105 


THE   INVASION  OF   ENGLAND 

stars.  There  will  be  no  moon.  The  very 
h-eavens  fight  for  us,  and  by  sunrise  our  outposts 
will  be  twenty  miles  inland!" 

At  lunch-time  Carl  Schultz  carefully,  obse 
quiously  waited  upon  the  three  strangers.  He 
gave  them  their  choice  of  soup,  thick  or  clear, 
of  gooseberry  pie  or  Half-Pay  pudding.  He 
accepted  their  shillings  gratefully,  and  when 
they  departed  for  the  links  he  bowed  them  on 
their  way.  And  as  their  car  turned  up  Jetty 
Street,  for  one  instant,  he  again  allowed  his 
eyes  to  sweep  the  dull  gray  ocean.  Brown- 
sailed  fishing-boats  were  beating  in  toward 
Cromer.  On  the  horizon  line  a  Norwegian 
tramp  was  drawing  a  lengthening  scarf  of  smoke. 
Save  for  these  the  sea  was  empty. 

By  gracious  permission  of  the  manageress 
Carl  had  obtained  an  afternoon  off,  and,  chang 
ing  his  coat,  he  mounted  his  bicycle  and  set 
forth  toward  Overstrand.  On  his  way  he 
nodded  to  the  local  constable,  to  the  postman 
on  his  rounds,  to  the  driver  of  the  char  a  bane. 
He  had  been  a  year  in  Cromer  and  was  well 
known  and  well  liked. 

Three  miles  from  Cromer,  at  the  top  of  the 
highest  hill  in  Overstrand,  the  chimneys  of  a 
house  showed  above  a  thick  tangle  of  fir-trees. 
Between  the  trees  and  the  road  rose  a  wall, 
high,  compact,  forbidding.  Carl  opened  the 

1 06 


THE  INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

gate  in  the  wall  and  pushed  his  bicycle  up  a 
winding  path  hemmed  in  by  bushes.  At  the 
sound  of  his  feet  on  the  gravel  the  bushes  flew 
apart,  and  a  man  sprang  into  the  walk  and  con 
fronted  him.  But,  at  sight  of  the  head-waiter, 
the  legs  of  the  man  became  rigid,  his  heels 
clicked  together,  his  hand  went  sharply  to  his 
visor. 

Behind  the  house,  surrounded  on  every  side 
by  trees,  was  a  tiny  lawn.  In  the  centre  of 
the  lawn,  where  once  had  been  a  tennis  court, 
there  now  stood  a  slim  mast.  From  this  mast 
dangled  tiny  wires  that  ran  to  a  kitchen  table. 
On  the  table,  its  brass  work  shining  in  the  sun, 
was  a  new  and  perfectly  good  wireless  outfit, 
and  beside  it,  with  his  hand  on  the  key,  was  a 
heavily  built,  heavily  bearded  German.  In  his 
turn,  Carl  drew  his  legs  together,  his  heels 
clicked,  his  hand  stuck  to  his  visor. 

"I  have  been  in  constant  communication," 
said  the  man  with  the  beard.  "They  will  be 
here  just  before  the  dawn.  Return  to  Cromer 
and  openly  from  the  post-office  telegraph  your 
cousin  in  London:  'Will  meet  you  to-morrow 
at  the  Crystal  Palace.'  On  receipt  of  that,  in 
the  last  edition  of  all  of  this  afternoon's  papers, 
he  will  insert  the  final  advertisement.  Thirty 
thousand  of  our  own  people  will  read  it.  They 
will  know  the  moment  has  come!" 

107 


THE   INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

As  Carl  coasted  back  to  Cromer  he  flashed 
past  many  pretty  gardens  where,  upon  the 
lawns,  men  in  flannels  were  busy  at  tennis  or, 
with  pretty  ladies,  deeply  occupied  in  drinking 
tea.  Carl  smiled  grimly.  High  above  him  on 
the  sky-line  of  the  cliff  he  saw  the  three  stran 
gers  he  had  served  at  luncheon.  They  were 
driving  before  them  three  innocuous  golf  balls. 

"A  nation  of  wasters,"  muttered  the  Ger 
man,  "sleeping  at  their  posts.  They  are  fid 
dling  while  England  falls!" 

Mr.  Shutliffe,  of  Stiffkey,  had  led  his  cow  in 
from  the  marsh,  and  was  about  to  close  the 
cow-barn  door,  when  three  soldiers  appeared 
suddenly  around  the  wall  of  the  village  church. 
They  ran  directly  toward  him.  It  was  nine 
o'clock,  but  the  twilight  still  held.  The  uni 
forms  the  men  wore  were  unfamiliar,  but  in  his 
day  Mr.  Shutliffe  had  seen  many  uniforms,  and 
to  him  all  uniforms  looked  alike.  The  tallest 
soldier  snapped  at  Mr.  Shutliffe  fiercely  in  a 
strange  tongue. 

"Du  bist  gefangen!"  he  announced.  "Das 
Dorf  ist  besetzt.  Wo  sind  unsere  Leute?"  he 
demanded. 

"You'll  'ave  to  excuse  me,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Shutliffe,  "but  I  am  a  trifle  'ard  of  'earing.5 

The  soldier  addressed  him  in  English. 
1 08 


9J 


THE   INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

"What  is  the  name  of  this  village?"  he  de 
manded. 

Mr.  ShutlifFe,  having  lived  in  the  village  up 
ward  of  eighty  years,  recalled  its  name  with 
difficulty. 

"Have  you  seen  any  of  our  people?" 

With  another  painful  effort  of  memory  Mr. 
Shutliffe  shook  his  head. 

"Go  indoors!"  commanded  the  soldier,  "and 
put  out  all  lights,  and  remain  indoors.  We 
have  taken  this  village.  We  are  Germans. 
You  are  a  prisoner!  Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,  sir,  thank'ee,  sir,  kindly,"  stammered 

Mr.  Shutliffe.     "May  I  lock  in  the  pigs  first, 

•   o» 

sir/ 

One  of  the  soldiers  coughed  explosively,  and 
ran  away,  and  the  two  others  trotted  after  him. 
When  they  looked  back,  Mr.  Shutliffe  was  still 
standing  uncertainly  in  the  dusk,  mildly  con 
cerned  as  to  whether  he  should  lock  up  the  pigs 
.or  obey  the  German  gentleman. 

The  three  soldiers  halted  behind  the  church 
wall. 

"That  was  a  fine  start!"  mocked  Herbert. 
"Of  course,  you  had  to  pick  out  the  Village 
Idiot.  If  they  are  all  going  to  take  it  like  that, 
we  had  better  pack  up  and  go  home." 

"The  village  inn  is  still  open,"  said  Ford. 
"We'll  close  it." 

109 


THE   INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

They  entered  with  fixed  bayonets  and  dropped 
the  butts  of  their  rifles  on  the  sanded  floor.  A 
man  in  gaiters  choked  over  his  ale  and  two 
fishermen  removed  their  clay  pipes  and  stared. 
The  bar-maid  alone  arose  to  the  occasion. 

"Now,  then,"  she  exclaimed  briskly,  "what 
way  is  that  to  come  tumbling  into  a  respectable 
place?  None  of  your  tea-garden  tricks  in  here, 
young  fellow,  my  lad,  or " 

The  tallest  of  the  three  intruders,  in  deep 
guttural  accents,  interrupted  her  sharply. 

"We  are  Germans  !"  he  declared.  "This  vil 
lage  is  captured.  You  are  prisoners  of  war. 
Those  lights  you  will  out  put,  and  yourselves  lock 
in.  If  you  into  the  street  go,  we  will  shoot!" 

He  gave  a  command  in  a  strange  language; 
so  strange,  indeed,  that  the  soldiers  with  him 
failed  to  entirely  grasp  his  meaning,  and  one 
shouldered  his  rifle,  while  the  other  brought  his 
politely  to  a  salute. 

"  You  ass ! "  muttered  the  tall  German.  "  Get 
out!" 

As  they  charged  into  the  street,  they  heard 
behind  them  a  wild  feminine  shriek,  then  a 
crash  of  pottery  and  glass,  then  silence,  and  an 
instant  later  the  Ship  Inn  was  buried  in  dark 
ness. 

"That  will  hold  Stiffkey  for  a  while!"  said 
Ford.  "Now,  back  to  the  car." 

no 


THE  INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

But  between  them  and  the  car  loomed  sud 
denly  a  tall  and  impressive  figure.  His  helmet 
and  his  measured  tread  upon  the  deserted 
cobble-stones  proclaimed  his  calling. 

"The  constable !'?  whispered  Herbert.  "He 
must  see  us,  but  he  mustn't  speak  to  us." 

For  a  moment  the  three  men  showed  them 
selves  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  then,  as 
though  at  sight  of  the  policeman  they  had  taken 
alarm,  disappeared  through  an  opening  between 
two  houses.  Five  minutes  later  a  motor-car, 
with  its  canvas  top  concealing  its  occupants, 
rode  slowly  into  Stiffkey's  main  street  and 
halted  before  the  constable.  The  driver  of  the 
car  wore  a  leather  skull-cap  and  goggles.  From 
his  neck  to  his  heels  he  was  covered  by  a  rain 
coat. 

"Mr.  Policeman,"  he  began;  "when  I  turned 
in  here  three  soldiers  stepped  in  front  of  my 
car  and  pointed  rifles  at  me.  Then  they  ran  off 
toward  the  beach.  What's  the  idea — manoeu 
vres?  Because,  they've  no  right  to " 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  policeman  assured  him 
promptly;  "I  saw  them.  It's  manoeuvres,  sir. 
Territorials." 

"They  didn't  look  like  Territorials,"  objected 
the  chauffeur.  "They  looked  like  Germans." 

Protected  by  the  deepening  dusk,  the  con 
stable  made  no  effort  to  conceal  a  grin. 

in 


THE  INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

"Just  Territorials,  sir,"  he  protested  sooth 
ingly;  "skylarking  maybe,  but  meaning  no 
harm.  Still,  I'll  have  a  look  round,  and  warn 


A  voice  from  beneath  the  canvas  broke  in 
angrily: 

"I  tell  you,  they  were  Germans.  It's  either 
a  silly  joke,  or  it's  serious,  and  you  ought  to 
report  it.  It's  your  duty  to  warn  the  Coast 
Guard." 

The  constable  considered  deeply. 

"I  wouldn't  take  it  on  myself  to  wake  the 
Coast  Guard,"  he  protested;  "not  at  this  time 
of  the  night.  But  if  any  Germans'  been  annoy 
ing  you,  gentlemen,  and  you  wish  to  lodge  a 
complaint  against  them,  you  give  me  your 
cards " 

"Ye  gods!"  cried  the  man  in  the  rear  of  the 
car.  "Go  on!"  he  commanded. 

As  the  car  sped  out  of  Stiffkey,  Herbert  ex 
claimed  with  disgust: 

"What's  the  use!"  he  protested.  "You 
couldn't  wake  these  people  with  dynamite !  I 
vote  we  chuck  it  and  go  home." 

"They  little  know  of  England  who  only 
Stiffkey  know,"  chanted  the  chauffeur  reprov 
ingly.  "Why,  we  haven't  begun  yet.  Wait 
till  we  meet  a  live  wire!" 

Two  miles  farther  along  the  road  to  Cromer, 
112 


THE   INVASION  OF   ENGLAND 

young  Bradshaw,  the  job-master's  son  at  Blake- 
ruy,  was  leading  his  bicycle  up  the  hill.  Ahead 
of  him  something  heavy  flopped  from  the  bank 
into  the  road — and  in  the  light  of  his  acetylene 
lamp  he  saw  a  soldier.  The  soldier  dodged 
across  the  road  and  scrambled  through  the 
hedge  on  the  bank  opposite.  He  was  followed 
by  another  soldier,  and  then  by  a  third.  The 
last  man  halted. 

"Put  out  that  light,"  he  commanded.  "Go 
to  your  home  and  tell  no  one  what  you  have 
seen.  If  you  attempt  to  give  an  alarm  you 
will  be  shot.  Our  sentries  are  placed  every 
fifty  yards  along  this  road." 

The  soldier  disappeared  from  in  front  of  the 
ray  of  light  and  followed  his  comrades,  and  an 
instant  later  young  Bradshaw  heard  them  slid 
ing  over  the  cliff's  edge  and  the  pebbles  clatter 
ing  to  the  beach  below.  Young  Bradshaw  stood 
quite  still.  In  his  heart  was  much  fear — fear 
of  laughter,  of  ridicule,  of  failure.  But  of  no 
other  kind  of  fear.  Softly,  silently  he  turned 
his  bicycle  so  that  it  faced  down  the  long  hill 
he  had  just  climbed.  Then  he  snapped  off  the 
light.  He  had  been  reliably  informed  that  in 
ambush  at  every  fifty  yards  along  the  road  to 
Blakeney,  sentries  were  waiting  to  fire  on  him. 
And  he  proposed  to  run  the  gauntlet.  He  saw 
that  it  was  for  this  moment  that,  first  as  a 


THE   INVASION  OF   ENGLAND 

volunteer  and  later  as  a  Territorial,  he  had 
drilled  in  the  town  hall,  practised  on  the  rifle 
range,  and  in  mixed  manoeuvres  slept  in  six 
inches  of  mud.  As  he  threw  his  leg  across  his 
bicycle,  Herbert,  from  the  rnotor-car  farther  up 
the  hill,  fired  two  shots  over  his  head.  These, 
he  explained  to  Ford,  were  intended  to  give 
"verisimilitude  to  an  otherwise  bald  and  un 
convincing  narrative."  And  the  sighing  of  the 
bullets  gave  young  Bradshaw  exactly  what  he 
wanted — the  assurance  that  he  was  not  the 
victim  of  a  practical  joke.  He  threw  his  weight 
forward  and,  lifting  his  feet,  coasted  downhill 
at  forty  miles  an  hour  into  the  main  street  of 
Blakeney.  Ten  minutes  later,  when  the  car 
followed,  a  mob  of  men  so  completely  blocked 
the  water-front  that  Ford  was  forced  to  stop. 
His  head-lights  illuminated  hundreds  of  faces, 
anxious,  sceptical,  eager.  A  gentleman  with  a 
white  mustache  and  a  look  of  a  retired  army 
officer  pushed  his  way  toward  Ford,  the  crowd 
making  room  for  him,  and  then  closing  in  his 
wake. 

"Have  you  seen  any — any  soldiers?"  he  de 
manded. 

"German  soldiers!"  Ford  answered.  "They 
tried  to  catch  us,  but  when  I  saw  who  they 
were,  I  ran  through  them  to  warn  you.  They 

fired  find " 

114 


THE   INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

"How  many — and  where ?" 

"A  half-company  at  Stiffkey  and  a  half-mile 
farther  on  a  regiment.  We  didn't  know  then 
they  were  Germans,  not  until  they  stopped  us. 
You'd  better  telephone  the  garrison,  and " 

"Thank  you!"  snapped  the  elderly  gentle 
man.  "  I  happen  to  be  in  command  of  this  dis 
trict.  What  are  your  names  ?" 

Ford  pushed  the  car  forward,  parting  the 
crowd. 

"I've  no  time  for  that!"  he  called.  "We've 
got  to  warn  every  coast  town  in  Norfolk.  You 
take  my  tip  and  get  London  on  the  long  dis 
tance!" 

As  they  ran  through  the  night  Ford  spoke 
over  his  shoulder. 

"We've  got  them  guessing,"  he  said.  "Now, 
what  we  want  is  a  live  wire,  some  one  with 
imagination,  some  one  with  authority  who  will 
wake  the  countryside." 

"Looks  ahead  there,"  said  Birrell,  "as  though 
it  hadn't  gone  to  bed." 

Before  them,  as  on  a  Maf eking  night,  every 
window  in  Cley  shone  with  lights.  In  the  main 
street  were  fishermen,  shopkeepers,  "trippers" 
in  flannels,  summer  residents.  The  women  had 
turned  out  as  though  to  witness  a  display  of 
fireworks.  Girls  were  clinging  to  the  arms  of 
their  escorts,  shivering  in  delighted  terror.  The 

115 


THE   INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

proprietor  of  the  Red  Lion  sprang  in  front  of 
the  car  and  waved  his  arms. 

"What's  this  tale  about  Germans?"  he  de 
manded  jocularly. 

"You  can  see  their  lights  from  the  beach," 
said  Ford.  "  They've  landed  two  regiments  be 
tween  here  and  Wells.  Stiffkey  is  taken,  and 
they've  cut  all  the  wires  south." 

The  proprietor  refused  to  be  "had." 

"Let  'em  all  come!"  he  mocked. 

"All  right,"  returned  Ford.  "Let  'em  come, 
but  don't  take  it  lying  down !  Get  those 
women  off  the  streets,  and  go  down  to  the 
beach,  and  drive  the  Germans  back!  Gang 
way,"  he  shouted,  and  the  car  shot  forward. 
"We  warned  you,"  he  called,  "and  it's  up  to 
you  to— 

His  words  were  lost  in  the  distance.  But 
behind  him  a  man's  voice  rose  with  a  roar  like 
a  rocket  and  was  met  with  a  savage,  deep- 
throated  cheer. 

Outside  the  village  Ford  brought  the  car  to  a 
halt  and  swung  in  his  seat. 

"This  thing  is  going  to  fail!"  he  cried  petu 
lantly.  "They  don't  believe  us.  We've  got 
to  show  ourselves — many  times — in  a  dozen 
places." 

"The  British  mind  moves  slowly,"  said  Bir- 
rell,  the  Irishman.  "Now,  if  this  had  happened 

in  my  native  land " 

116 


THE   INVASION  OF   ENGLAND 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  screech  of  a  siren, 
and  a  demon  car  that  spurned  the  road,  that 
splattered  them  with  pebbles,  tore  past  and 
disappeared  in  the  darkness.  As  it  fled  down 
the  lane  of  their  head-lights,  they  saw  that 
men  in  khaki  clung  to  its  sides,  were  packed  in 
its  tonneau,  were  swaying  from  its  running 
boards.  Before  they  could  find  their  voices  a 
motor  cycle,  driven  as  though  the  angel  of 
death  were  at  the  wheel,  shaved  their  mud 
guard  and,  in  its  turn,  vanished  into  the  night. 

"Things  are  looking  up!"  said  Ford. 
"Where  is  our  next  stop?  As  I  said  before, 
what  we  want  is  a  live  one." 

Herbert  pressed  his  electric  torch  against  his 
road  map. 

"We  are  next  billed  to  appear,"  he  said, 
"about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  here,  at  the 
signal-tower  of  the  Great  Eastern  Railroad, 
where  we  visit  the  night  telegraph  operator  and 
give  him  the  surprise  party  of  his  life." 

The  three  men  had  mounted  the  steps  of  the 
signal-tower  so  quietly  that,  when  the  operator 
heard  them,  they  already  surrounded  him.  He 
saw  three  German  soldiers  with  fierce  upturned 
mustaches,  with  flat,  squat  helmets,  with  long 
brown  rifles.  They  saw  an  anaemic,  pale-faced 
youth  without  a  coat  or  collar,  for  the  night 
was  warm,  who  sank  back  limply  in  his  chair 
and  gazed  speechless  with  wide-bulging  eyes. 

117 


THE   INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

In  harsh,  guttural  tones  Ford  addressed  him. 

"You  are  a  prisoner,"  he  said.  "We  take 
over  this  office  in  the  name  of  the  German  Em 
peror.  Get  out!" 

As  though  instinctively  seeking  his  only 
weapon  of  defence,  the  hand  of  the  boy  operator 
moved  across  the  table  to  the  key  of  his  instru 
ment.  Ford  flung  his  rifle  upon  it. 

"No,  you  don't!"  he  growled.     "Get  out!" 

With  eyes  still  bulging,  the  boy  lifted  himself 
into  a  sitting  posture. 

"My  pay — my  month's  pay?"  he  stammered. 
"Can  I  take  it?" 

The  expression  on  the  face  of  the  conqueror 
relaxed. 

"Take  it  and  get  out,"  Ford  commanded. 

With  eyes  still  fixed  in  fascinated  terror  upon 
the  invader,  the  boy  pulled  open  the  drawer 
of  the  table  before  him  and  fumbled  with  the 
papers  inside. 

"Quick!"  cried  Ford. 

The  boy  was  very  quick.  His  hand  leaped 
from  the  drawer  like  a  snake,  and  Ford  found 
himself  looking  into  a  revolver  of  the  largest 
calibre  issued  by  a  civilized  people.  Birrell  fell 
upon  the  boy's  shoulders,  Herbert  twisted  the 
gun  from  his  fingers  and  hurled  it  through  the 
window,  and  almost  as  quickly  hurled  himself 
down  the  steps  of  the  tower.  Birrell  leaped 

118 


THE  INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

after  him.  Ford  remained  only  long  enough  to 
shout:  "Don't  touch  that  instrument!  If  you 
attempt  to  send  a  message  through,  we  will 
shoot.  We  go  to  cut  the  wires  !" 

For  a  minute,  the  boy  in  the  tower  sat  rigid, 
his  ears  strained,  his  heart  beating  in  sharp, 
suffocating  stabs.  Then,  with  his  left  arm 
raised  to  guard  his  face,  he  sank  to  his  knees 
and,  leaning  forward  across  the  table,  inviting 
as  he  believed  his  death,  he  opened  the  circuit 
and  through  the  night  flashed  out  a  warning  to 
his  people. 

When  they  had  taken  their  places  in  the  car, 
Herbert  touched  Ford  on  the  shoulder. 

"Your  last  remark,"  he  said,  "was  that  what 
we  wanted  was  a  live  one." 

"Don't  mention  it!"  said  Ford.  "He 
jammed  that  gun  half  down  my  throat.  I  can 
taste  it  still.  Where  do  we  go  from  here?" 

"According  to  the  route  we  mapped  out  this 
afternoon,"  said  Herbert,  "we  are  now  scheduled 
to  give  exhibitions  at  the  coast  towns  of  Salt- 
house  and  Wey bourne,  but " 

"Not  with  me/"  exclaimed  Birrell  fiercely. 
" Those  towns  have  been  tipped  off  by  now  by 
Blakeney  and  Cley,  and  the  Boy  Scouts  would 
club  us  to  death.  I  vote  we  take  the  back 
roads  to  Morston,  and  drop  in  on  a  lonely  Coast 
Guard.  If  a  Coast  Guard  sees  us,  the  authori- 

119 


THE   INVASION  OF   ENGLAND 

ties  will  have  to  believe  Aim,  and  they'll  call 
out  the  navy." 

Herbert  consulted  his  map. 

" There  is  a  Coast  Guard,"  he  said,  "sta 
tioned  just  the  other  side  of  Morston.  And," 
he  added  fervently,  "let  us  hope  he's  lonely." 

They  lost  their  way  in  the  back  roads,  and 
when  they  again  reached  the  coast  an  hour  had 
passed.  It  was  now  quite  dark.  There  were 
no  stars,  nor  moon,  but  after  they  had  left  the 
car  in  a  side  lane  and  had  stepped  out  upon 
the  cliff,  they  saw  for  miles  along  the  coast 
great  beacon  fires  burning  fiercely. 

Herbert  came  to  an  abrupt  halt. 

"Since  seeing  those  fires,"  he  explained,  "I 
feel  a  strange  reluctance  about  showing  myself 
in  this  uniform  to  a  Coast  Guard." 

"Coast  Guards  don't  shoot!"  mocked  Birrell. 
"They  only  look  at  the  clouds  through  a  tele 
scope.  Three  Germans  with  rifles  ought  to  be 
able  to  frighten  one  Coast  Guard  with  a  tele 
scope." 

The  whitewashed  cabin  of  the  Coast  Guard 
was  perched  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  Behind  it 
the  downs  ran  back  to  meet  the  road.  The 
door  of  the  cabin  was  open  and  from  it  a  shaft 
of  light  cut  across  a  tiny  garden  and  showed 
the  white  fence  and  the  walk  of  shells. 

"We  must  pass  in  single  file  in  front  of  that 
120 


THE  INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

light,"  whispered  Ford,  "and  then,  after  we 
are  sure  he  has  seen  us,  we  must  run  like  the 
devil!" 

"I'm  on  in  that  last  scene,"  growled  Her 
bert. 

"Only,"  repeated  Ford  with  emphasis,  "we 
must  be  sure  he  has  seen  us." 

Not  twenty  feet  from  them  came  a  bursting 
roar,  a  flash,  many  roars,  many  flashes,  many 
bullets. 

"He's  seen  us!"  yelled  Birrell. 

After  the  light  from  his  open  door  had  shown 
him  one  German  soldier  fully  armed,  the  Coast 
Guard  had  seen  nothing  further.  But  judging 
from  the  shrieks  of  terror  and  the  sounds  of 
falling  bodies  that  followed  his  first  shot,  he 
was  convinced  he  was  hemmed  in  by  an  army, 
and  he  proceeded  to  sell  his  life  dearly.  Clip 
after  clip  of  cartridges  he  emptied  into  the 
night,  now  to  the  front,  now  to  the  rear,  now 
out  to  sea,  now  at  his  own  shadow  in  the  lamp 
light.  To  the  people  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away 
at  Morston  it  sounded  like  a  battle. 

After  running  half  a  mile,  Ford,  bruised  and 
breathless,  fell  at  full  length  on  the  grass  beside 
the  car.  Near  it,  tearing  from  his  person  the 
last  vestiges  of  a  German  uniform,  he  found 
Birrell.  He  also  was  puffing  painfully. 

'"What  happened  to  Herbert?"  panted  Ford. 
121 


THE  INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

"I  don't  know,"  gasped  Birrell.  "When  I 
saw  him  last  he  was  diving  over  the  cliff  into 
the  sea.  How  many  times  did  you  die?" 

"About  twenty!"  groaned  the  American, 
"and,  besides  being  dead,  I  am  severely  wound 
ed.  Every  time  he  fired,  I  fell  on  my  face,  and 
each  time  I  hit  a  rock !" 

A  scarecrow  of  a  figure  appeared  suddenly  in 
the  rays  of  the  head-lights.  It  was  Herbert, 
scratched,  bleeding,  dripping  with  water,  and 
clad  simply  in  a  shirt  and  trousers.  He  dragged 
out  his  kit  bag  and  fell  into  his  golf  clothes. 

"Anybody  who  wants  a  perfectly  good  Ger 
man  uniform,"  he  cried,  "can  have  mine.  I 
left  it  in  the  first  row  of  breakers.  It  didn't 
fit  me,  anyway." 

The  other  two  uniforms  were  hidden  in  the 
seat  of  the  car.  The  rifles  and  helmets,  to 
lend  color  to  the  invasion,  were  dropped  in  the 
open  road,  and  five  minutes  later  three  gentle 
men  in  inconspicuous  Harris  tweeds,  and  with 
golf  clubs  protruding  from  every  part  of  their 
car,  turned  into  the  shore  road  to  Cromer. 
What  they  saw  brought  swift  terror  to  their 
guilty  souls  and  the  car  to  an  abrupt  halt. 
Before  them  was  a  regiment  of  regulars  advanc 
ing  in  column  of  fours,  at  the  "double."  An 
officer  sprang  to  the  front  of  the  car  and  seated 
himself  beside  Ford. 

122 


THE   INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

"I'll  have  to  commandeer  this/'  he  said. 
"Run  back  to  Cromer.  Don't  crush  my  men, 
but  go  like  the  devil !" 

"We  heard  firing  here,"  explained  the  officer, 
"at  the  Coast  Guard  station.  The  Guard  drove 
them  back  to  the  sea.  He  counted  over  a 
dozen.  They  made  pretty  poor  practice,  for  he 
isn't  wounded,  but  his  gravel  walk  looks  as 
though  some  one  had  drawn  a  harrow  over  it. 
I  wonder,"  exclaimed  the  officer  suddenly,  "if 
you  are  the  three  gentlemen  who  first  gave  the 
alarm  to  Colonel  Raglan  and  then  went  on  to 
warn  the  other  coast  towns.  Because,  if  you 
are,  he  wants  your  names." 

Ford  considered  rapidly.  If  he  gave  false 
names  and  that  fact  were  discovered,  they 
would  be  suspected  and  investigated,  and  the 
worst  might  happen.  So  he  replied  that  his 
friends  and  himself  probably  were  the  men  to 
whom  the  officer  referred.  He  explained  they 
had  been  returning  from  Cromer,  where  they 
had  gone  to  play  golf,  when  they  had  been  held 
up  by  the  Germans. 

''You  were  lucky  to  escape,"  said  the  officer. 
"And  in  keeping  on  to  give  warning  you  were 
taking  chances.  If  I  may  say  so,  we  think  you 
behaved  extremely  well." 

Ford  could  not  answer.  His  guilty  conscience 
shamed  him  into  silence.  With  his  siren  shriek- 

123 


THE   INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

ing  and  his  horn  tooting,  he  was  forcing  the 
car  through  lanes  of  armed  men.  They  packed 
each  side  of  the  road.  They  were  banked  be 
hind  the  hedges.  Their  camp-fires  blazed  from 
every  hill-top. 

"Your  regiment  seems  to  have  turned  out  to 
a  man!"  exclaimed  Ford  admiringly. 

"  My  regiment ! "  snorted  the  officer.  "  YouVe 
passed  through  five  regiments  already,  and 
there  are  as  many  more  in  the  dark  places. 
They're  everywhere!"  he  cried  jubilantly. 

"And  I  thought  they  were  only  where  you 
see  the  camp-fires,"  exclaimed  Ford. 

"That's  what  the  Germans  think,"  said  the 
officer.  "It's  working  like  a  clock,"  he  cried 
happily.  "There  hasn't  been  a  hitch.  As 
soon  as  they  got  your  warning  to  Colonel  Rag- 
Ian,  they  came  down  to  the  coast  like  a  wave, 
on  foot,  by  trains,  by  motors,  and  at  nine 
o'clock  the  Government  took  over  all  the  rail 
roads.  The  county  regiments,  regulars,  yeo 
manry,  territorials,  have  been  spread  along 
this  shore  for  thirty  miles.  Down  in  London 
the  Guards  started  to  Dover  and  Brighton  two 
hours  ago.  The  Automobile  Club  in  the  first 
hour  collected  two  hundred  cars  and  turned 
them  over  to  the  Guards  in  Bird  Cage  Walk. 
Cody  and  Graham e-White  and  eight  of  his  air 
men  left  Hendon  an  hour  ago  to  reconnoitre 

124 


THE  INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

the  south  coast.  Admiral  Beatty  has  started 
with  the  Channel  Squadron  to  head  off  the 
German  convoy  in  the  North  Sea,  and  the  tor 
pedo  destroyers  have  been  sent  to  lie  outside 
of  Heligoland.  We'll  get  that  back  by  daylight. 
And  on  land  every  one  of  the  three  services  is 
under  arms.  On  this  coast  alone  before  sun 
rise  we'll  have  one  hundred  thousand  men,  and 
from  Colchester  the  brigade  division  of  artil 
lery,  from  Ipswich  the  R.  H.  A.'s  with  siege- 
guns,  field-guns,  quick-firing-guns,  all  kinds  of 
guns  spread  out  over  every  foot  of  ground  from 
here  to  Hunstanton.  They  thought  they'd  give 
us  a  surprise  party.  They  will  never  give  us 
another  surprise  party !" 

On  the  top  of  the  hill  at  Overstrand,  the  head- 
waiter  of  the  East  Cliff  Hotel  and  the  bearded 
German  stood  in  the  garden  back  of  the  house 
with  the  forbidding  walls.  From  the  road  in 
front  came  unceasingly  the  tramp  and  shuffle 
of  thousands  of  marching  feet,  the  rumble  of 
heavy  cannon,  the  clanking  of  their  chains,  the 
voices  of  men  trained  to  command  raised  in 
sharp,  confident  orders.  The  sky  was  illu 
minated  by  countless  fires.  Every  window  of 
every  cottage  and  hotel  blazed  with  lights. 
The  night  had  been  turned  into  day.  The  eyes 
of  the  two  Germans  were  like  the  eyes  of  those 
who  had  passed  through  an  earthquake,  of 

125 


THE  INVASION  OF   ENGLAND 

those  who  looked  upon  the  burning  of  San 
Francisco,  upon  the  destruction  of  Messina. 

"We  were  betrayed,  general/'  whispered  the 
head-waiter. 

"We  were  betrayed,  baron,"  replied  the 
bearded  one. 

"But  you  were  in  time  to  warn  the  flotilla." 

With  a  sigh,  the  older  man  nodded. 

"The  last  message  I  received  over  the  wire 
less,"  he  said,  "before  I  destroyed  it,  read, 
'Your  message  understood.  We  are  returning. 
Our  movements  will  be  explained  as  manoeu 
vres.'  And,"  added  the  general,  "the  English, 
having  driven  us  back,  will  be  willing  to  officially 
accept  that  explanation.  As  manoeuvres,  this 
night  will  go  down  into  history.  Return  to  the 
hotel,"  he  commanded,  "and  in  two  months 
you  can  rejoin  your  regiment." 

On  the  morning  after  the  invasion  the  New 
York  Republic  published  a  map  of  Great  Britain 
that  covered  three  columns  and  a  wood-cut  of 
Ford  that  was  spread  over  five.  Beneath  it 
was  printed:  "Lester  Ford,  our  London  corre 
spondent,  captured  by  the  Germans;  he  escapes 
and  is  the  first  to  warn  the  English  people." 

On  the  same  morning,  in  an  editorial  in  The 
Times  of  London,  appeared  this  paragraph: 

"The  Germans  were  first  seen  by  the  Hon. 
Arthur  Herbert,  the  eldest  son  of  Lord  Cinaris; 

126 


THE  INVASION  OF  ENGLAND 

Mr.  Patrick  Headford  Birrell— both  of  Balliol 
College,  Oxford;  and  Mr.  Lester  Ford,  the  cor 
respondent  of  the  New  York  Republic.  These 
gentlemen  escaped  from  the  landing  party  that 
tried  to  make  them  prisoners,  and  at  great  risk 
proceeded  in  their  motor-car  over  roads  infested 
by  the  Germans  to  all  the  coast  towns  of  Nor 
folk,  warning  the  authorities.  Should  the  war 
office  fail  to  recognize  their  services,  the  people 
of  Great  Britain  will  prove  that  they  are  not 
ungrateful." 

A  week  later  three  young  men  sat  at  dinner 
on  the  terrace  of  the  Savoy. 

"Shall  we,  or  shall  we  not,"  asked  Herbert, 
"tell  my  uncle  that  we  three,  and  we  three 
alone,  were  the  invaders?" 

"That's  hardly  correct,"  said  Ford;  "as  we 
now  know  there  were  two  hundred  thousand 
invaders.  We  were  the  only  three  who  got 
ashore." 

"I  vote  we  don't  tell  him,"  said  Birrell. 
"Let  him  think  with  everybody  else  that  the 
Germans  blundered;  that  an  advance  party 
landed  too  soon  and  gave  the  show  away.  If 
we  talk,"  he  argued,  "we'll  get  credit  for  a  suc 
cessful  hoax.  If  we  keep  quiet,  everybody  will 
continue  to  think  we  saved  England.  I'm  con 
tent  to  let  it  go  at  that." 


127 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

DAVID  GREENE  was  an  employee  of  the  Bur- 
dett  Automatic  Punch  Company.  The  manu 
facturing  plant  of  the  company  was  at  Bridge 
port,  but  in  the  New  York  offices  there  were 
working  samples  of  all  the  punches,  from  the 
little  nickel-plated  hand  punch  with  which 
conductors  squeezed  holes  in  railroad  tickets, 
to  the  big  punch  that  could  bite  into  an  iron 
plate  as  easily  as  into  a  piece  of  pie.  David's 
duty  was  to  explain  these  different  punches, 
and  accordingly  when  Burdett  Senior  or  one  of 
the  sons  turned  a  customer  over  to  David  he 
spoke  of  him  as  a  salesman.  But  David  called 
himself  a  "demonstrator."  For  a  short  time 
he  even  succeeded  in  persuading  the  other 
salesmen  to  speak  of  themselves  as  demon 
strators,  but  the  shipping  clerks  and  book 
keepers  laughed  them  out  of  it.  They  could 
not  laugh  David  out  of  it.  This  was  so, 
partly  because  he  had  no  sense  of  humor,  and 
partly  because  he  had  a  great-great-grandfather. 
Among  the  salesmen  on  lower  Broadway,  to 
possess  a  great-great-grandfather  is  unusual, 
even  a  great-grandfather  is  a  rarity,  and  either 

128 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

is  considered  superfluous.  But  to  David  the 
possession  of  a  great-great-grandfather  was  a 
precious  and  open  delight.  He  had  possessed 
him  only  for  a  short  time.  Undoubtedly  he 
always  had  existed,  but  it  was  not  until  David's 
sister  Anne  married  a  doctor  in  Bordentown, 
New  Jersey,  and  became  socially  ambitious, 
that  David  emerged  as  a  Son  of  Washington. 

It  was  sister  Anne,  anxious  to  ''get  in"  as  a 
"Daughter"  and  wear  a  distaff  pin  in  her  shirt 
waist,  who  discovered  the  revolutionary  ances 
tor.  She  unearthed  him,  or  rather  ran  him  to 
earth,  in  the  graveyard  of  the  Presbyterian 
church  at  Bordentown.  He  was  no  less  a  per 
son  than  General  Hiram  Greene,  and  he  had 
fought  with  Washington  at  Trenton  and  at 
Princeton.  Of  this  there  was  no  doubt.  That, 
later,  on  moving  to  New  York,  his  descendants 
became  peace-loving  salesmen  did  not  affect  his 
record.  To  enter  a  society  founded  on  heredity, 
the  important  thing  is  first  to  catch  your  an 
cestor,  and  having  made  sure  of  him,  David 
entered  the  Society  of  the  Sons  of  Washington 
with  flying  colors.  He  was  not  unlike  the  man 
who  had  been  speaking  prose  for  forty  years 
without  knowing  it.  He  was  not  unlike  the  other 
man  who  woke  to  find  himself  famous.  He  had 
gone  to  bed  a  timid,  near-sighted,  underpaid 
salesman  without  a  relative  in  the  world,  except 

129 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

a  married  sister  in  Bordentown,  and  he  awoke 
to  find  he  was  a  direct  descendant  of  "Neck 
or  Nothing"  Greene,  a  revolutionary  hero,  a 
friend  of  Washington,  a  man  whose  portrait 
hung  in  the  State  House  at  Trenton.  David's 
life  had  lacked  color.  The  day  he  carried  his 
certificate  of  membership  to  the  big  jewelry 
store  uptown  and  purchased  two  rosettes,  one 
for  each  of  his  two  coats,  was  the  proudest  of 
his  life. 

The  other  men  in  the  Broadway  office  took  a 
different  view.  As  Wryckoff,  one  of  Burdett's 
flying  squadron  of  travelling  salesmen,  said, 
"All  grandfathers  look  alike  to  me,  whether 
they're  great,  or  great-great-great.  Each  one 
is  as  dead  as  the  other.  I'd  rather  have  a  live 
cousin  who  could  loan  me  a  five,  or  slip  me  a 
drink.  What  did  your  great-great  dad  ever  do 
for  you?" 

"Well,  for  one  thing,"  said  David  stiffly,  "he 
fought  in  the  War  of  the  Revolution.  He  saved 
us  from  the  shackles  of  monarchical  England; 
he  made  it  possible  for  me  and  you  to  enjoy 
the  liberties  of  a  free  republic." 

/"Don't  try  to  tell  me  your  grandfather  did 
all  that,"  protested  Wyckoff,  "because  I  know 
better.  There  were  a  lot  of  others  helped.  I 
read  about  it  in  a  book." 

"I  am  not  grudging  glory  to  others,"  re- 
130 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

turned  David;  "I  am  only  saying  I  am  proud 
that  I  am  a  descendant  of  a  revolutionist." 

Wyckoff  dived  into  his  inner  pocket  and  pro 
duced  a  leather  photograph  frame  that  folded 
like  a  concertina. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  descendant,"  he  said; 
"I'd  rather  be  an  ancestor.  Look  at  those." 
Proudly  he  exhibited  photographs  of  Mrs. 
Wyckoff  with  the  baby  and  of  three  other  little 
Wyckoffs.  David  looked  with  envy  at  the 
children. 

"When  I'm  married,"  he  stammered,  and  at 
the  words  he  blushed,  "I  hope  to  be  an  an 


cestor." 


"  If  you're  thinking  of  getting  married,"  said 
Wyckoff,  "you'd  better  hope  for  a  raise  in 
salary." 

The  other  clerks  were  as  unsympathetic  as 
Wyckoff.  At  first  when  David  showed  them 
his  parchment  certificate,  and  his  silver  gilt 
insignia  with  on  one  side  a  portrait  of  Wash 
ington,  and  on  the  other  a  Continental  soldier, 
they  admitted  it  was  dead  swell.  They  even 
envied  him,  not  the  grandfather,  but  the  fact 
that  owing  to  that  distinguished  relative  David 
was  constantly  receiving  beautifully  engraved 
invitations  to  attend  the  monthly  meetings  of 
the  society;  to  subscribe  to  a  fund  to  erect 
monuments  on  battle-fields  to  mark  neglected 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

graves;  to  join  in  joyous  excursions  to  the  tomb 
of  Washington  or  of  John  Paul  Jones;  to  in 
spect  West  Point,  Annapolis,  and  Bunker  Hill; 
to  be  among  those  present  at  the  annual  "ban 
quet"  at  Delmonico's.  In  order  that  when  he 
opened  these  letters  he  might  have  an  audience, 
he  had  given  the  society  his  office  address. 

In  these  communications  he  was  always  ad 
dressed  as  "Dear  Compatriot,"  and  never  did 
the  words  fail  to  give  him  a  thrill.  They  seemed 
to  lift  him  out  of  Burdett's  salesrooms  and 
Broadway,  and  place  him  next  to  things  un 
commercial,  untainted,  high,  and  noble.  He 
did  not  quite  know  what  an  aristocrat  was,  but 
be  believed  being  a  compatriot  made  him  an 
aristocrat.  When  customers  were  rude,  when 
Mr.  John  or  Mr.  Robert  was  overbearing,  this 
idea  enabled  David  to  rise  above  their  ill- 
temper,  and  he  would  smile  and  say  to  himself: 
"If  they  knew  the  meaning  of  the  blue  rosette 
in  my  button-hole,  how  differently  they  would 
treat  me!  How  easily  with  a  word  could  I 
crush  them!" 

But  few  of  the  customers  recognized  the  sig 
nificance  of  the  button.  They  thought  it  meant 
that  David  belonged  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  or 
was  a  teetotaler.  David,  with  his  gentle  man 
ners  and  pale,  ascetic  face,  was  liable  to  give 
that  impression. 

132 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

When  Wyckoff  mentioned  marriage,  the  rea 
son  David  blushed  was  because,  although  no 
one  in  the  office  suspected  it,  he  wished  to 
marry  the  person  in  whom  the  office  took  the 
greatest  pride.  This  was  Miss  Emily  Anthony, 
one  of  Burdett  and  Sons'  youngest,  most  effi 
cient,  and  prettiest  stenographers,  and  although 
David  did  not  cut  as  dashing  a  figure  as  did 
some  of  the  firm's  travelling  men,  Miss  Anthony 
had  found  something  in  him  so  greatly  to  ad 
mire  that  she  had,  out  of  office  hours,  accepted 
his  devotion,  his  theatre  tickets,  and  an  engage 
ment  ring.  Indeed,  so  far  had  matters  pro 
gressed,  that  it  had  been  almost  decided  when 
in  a  few  months  they  would  go  upon  their 
vacations  they  also  would  go  upon  their  honey 
moon.  And  then  a  cloud  had  come  between 
them,  and  from  a  quarter  from  .which  David 
had  expected  only  sunshine. 

The  trouble  befell  when  David  discovered  he 
had  a  great-great-grandfather.  With  that  fact 
itself  Miss  Anthony  was  almost  as  pleased  as 
was  David  himself,  but  while  he  was  content 
to  bask  in  another's  glory,  Miss  Anthony  saw 
in  his  inheritance  only  an  incentive  to  achieve 
glory  for  himself. 

From  a  hard-working  salesman  she  had  asked 
but  little,  but  from  a  descendant  of  a  national 
hero  she  expected  other  things.  She  was  a  de- 

133 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

termined  young  person,  and  for  David  she  was 
an  ambitious  young  person.  She  found  she  was 
dissatisfied.  She  found  she  was  disappointed. 
The  great-great-grandfather  had  opened  up  a 
new  horizon — had,  in  a  way,  raised  the  stand 
ard.  She  was  as  fond  of  David  as  always,  but 
his  tales  of  past  wars  and  battles,  his  accounts 
of  present  banquets  at  which  he  sat  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  men  of  whom  even  Burdett  and 
Sons  spoke  with  awe,  touched  her  imagination. 

"You  shouldn't  be  content  to  just  wear  a 
button,"  she  urged.  "If  you're  a  Son  of  Wash 
ington,  you  ought  to  act  like  one." 

"I  know  I'm  not  worthy  of  you,"  David 
sighed. 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  and  you  know  I  don't," 
Emily  replied  indignantly.  "It  has  nothing  to 
do  with  me !  I  want  you  to  be  worthy  of  your 
self,  of  your  grandpa  Hiram !" 

"But  how?"  complained  David.  "What 
chance  has  a  twenty-five  dollar  a  week 
clerk " 

It  was  a  year  before  the  Spanish-American 
War,  while  the  patriots  of  Cuba  were  fighting 
the  mother  country  for  their  independence. 

"If  I  were  a  Son  of  the  Revolution,"  said 
Emily,  "I'd  go  to  Cuba  and  Kelp  free  it." 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,"  cried  David.  "If  I 
did  that  I'd  lose  my  job,  and  we'd  never  be 

134 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

able  to  marry.  Besides,  what's  Cuba  done  for 
me?  All  I  know  about  Cuba  is,  I  once  smoked 
a  Cuban  cigar  and  it  made  me  ill." 

"Did  Lafayette  talk  like  that?"  demanded 
Emily.  "Did  he  ask  what  have  the  American 
rebels  ever  done  for  me?" 

"If  I  were  in  Lafayette's  class,"  sighed 
David,  "I  wouldn't  be  selling  automatic 
punches." 

"  There's  your  trouble,"  declared  Emily. 
'You  lack  self-confidence.  You're  too  hum 
ble,  you've  got  fighting  blood  and  you  ought 
to  keep  saying  to  yourself,  'Blood  will  tell,'  and 
the  first  thing  you  know,  it  will  tell!  You 
might  begin  by  going  into  politics  in  your  ward. 
Or,  you  could  join  the  militia.  That  takes 
only  one  night  a  week,  and  then,  if  we  did  go 
to  war  with  Spain,  you'd  get  a  commission, 
and  come  back  a  captain!" 

Emily's  eyes  were  beautiful  with  delight. 
But  the  sight  gave  David  no  pleasure.  In 
genuine  distress,  he  shook  his  head. 

"Emily,"  he  said,  "you're  going  to  be  aw 
fully  disappointed  in  me." 

Emily's  eyes  closed  as  though  they  shied  at 
some  mental  picture.  But  when  she  opened 
them  they  were  bright,  and  her  smile  was  kind 
and  eager. 

"No,  I'm  not,"  she  protested;  "only  I  want 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

a  husband  with  a  career,  and  one  who'll  tell 
me  to  keep  quiet  when  I  try  to  run  it  for  him." 

"I've  often  wished  you  would,"  said  David. 

"Would  what?     Run  your  career  for  you?" 

"No,  keep  quiet.  Only  it  didn't  seem  polite 
to  tell  you  so." 

"Maybe  I'd  like  you  better,"  said  Emily,  "if 
you  weren't  so  darned  polite." 

A  week  later,  early  in  the  spring  of  1897, 
the  unexpected  happened,  and  David  was  pro 
moted  into  the  flying  squadron.  He  now  was 
a  travelling  salesman,  with  a  rise  in  salary  and 
a  commission  on  orders.  It  was  a  step  for 
ward,  but  as  going  on  the  road  meant  absence 
from  Emily,  David  was  not  elated.  Nor  did  it 
satisfy  Emily.  It  was  not  money  she  wanted. 
Her  ambition  for  David  could  not  be  silenced 
with  a  raise  in  wages.  She  did  not  say  this, 
but  David  knew  that  in  him  she  still  found 
something  lacking,  and  when  they  said  good-by 
they  both  were  ill  at  ease  and  completely  un 
happy.  Formerly,  each  day  when  Emily  in 
passing  David  in  the  office  said  good-morning, 
she  used  to  add  the  number  of  the  days  that 
still  separated  them  from  the  vacation  which 
also  was  to  be  their  honeymoon.  But,  for  the 
last  month  she  had  stopped  counting  the  days 
— at  least  she  did  not  count  them  aloud. 

David  did  not  ask  her  why  this  was  so.     He 

136 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

did  not  dare.  And,  sooner  than  learn  the  truth 
that  she  had  decided  not  to  marry  him,  or 
that  she  was  even  considering  not  marrying 
him,  he  asked  no  questions,  but  in  ignorance  of 
her  present  feelings  set  forth  on  his  travels. 
Absence  from  Emily  hurt  just  as  much  as  he 
had  feared  it  would.  He  missed  her,  needed 
her,  longed  for  her.  In  numerous  letters  he 
told  her  so.  But,  owing  to  the  frequency  with 
which  he  m'oved,  her  letters  never  caught  up 
with  him.  It  was  almost  a  relief.  He  did  not 
care  to  think  of  what  they  might  tell  him. 

The  route  assigned  David  took  him  through 
the  South  and  kept  him  close  to  the  Atlantic 
seaboard.  In  obtaining  orders  he  was  not  un 
successful,  and  at  the  end  of  the  first  month 
received  from  the  firm  a  telegram  of  congratu 
lation.  This  was  of  importance  chiefly  because 
it  might  please  Emily.  But  he  knew  that  in 
her  eyes  the  great-great-grandson  of  Hiram 
Greene  could  not  rest  content  with  a  telegram 
from  Burdett  and  Sons.  A  year  before  she 
would  have  considered  it  a  high  honor,  a  cause 
for  celebration.  Now,  he  could  see  her  press 
her  pretty  lips  together  and  shake  her  pretty 
head.  It  was  not  enough.  But  how  could  he 
accomplish  more.  He  began  to  hate  his  great- 
great-grandfather.  He  began  to  wish  Hiram 
Greene  had  lived  and  died  a  bachelor. 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

And  then  Dame  Fortune  took  David  in  hand 
and  toyed  with  him  and  spanked  him,  and 
pelted  and  petted  him,  until  finally  she  made 
him  her  favorite  son.  Dame  Fortune  went 
about  this  work  in  an  abrupt  and  arbitrary 
manner. 

On  the  night  of  the  1st  of  March,  1897,  two 
trains  were  scheduled  to  leave  the  Union  Sta 
tion  at  Jacksonville  at  exactly  the  same  minute, 
and  they  left  exactly  on  time.  As  never  be 
fore  in  the  history  of  any  Southern  railroad  has 
this  miracle  occurred,  it  shows  that  when  Dame 
Fortune  gets  on  the  job  she  is  omnipotent. 
She  placed  David  on  the  train  to  Miami  as  the 
train  he  wanted  drew  out  for  Tampa,  and  an 
hour  later,  when  the  conductor  looked  at  Da 
vid's  ticket,  he  pulled  the  bell-cord  and  dumped 
David  over  the  side  into  the  heart  of  a  pine 
forest.  If  he  walked  back  along  the  track  for 
one  mile,  the  conductor  reassured  him,  he  would 
find  a  flag  station  where  at  midnight  he  could 
flag  a  train  going  north.  In  an  hour  it  would 
deliver  him  safely  in  Jacksonville. 

There  was  a  moon,  but  for  the  greater  part 
of  the  time  it  was  hidden  by  fitful,  hurrying 
clouds,  and,  as  David  stumbled  forward,  at 
one  moment  he  would  see  the  rails  like  streaks 
of  silver,  and  the  next  would  be  encompassed 
in  a  complete  and  bewildering  darkness.  He 

138 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

made  his  way  from  tie  to  tie  only  by  feeling 
with  his  foot.  After  an  hour  he  came  to  a 
shed.  Whether  it  was  or  was  not  the  flag 
station  the  conductor  had  in  mind,  he  did  not 
know,  and  he  never  did  know.  He  was  too 
tired,  too  hot,  and  too  disgusted  to  proceed, 
and  dropping  his  suit  case  he  sat  down  under 
the  open  roof  of  the  shed  prepared  to  wait 
either  for  the  train  or  daylight.  So  far  as  he 
could  see,  on  every  side  of  him  stretched  a 
swamp,  silent,  dismal,  interminable.  From  its 
black  water  rose  dead  trees,  naked  of  bark  and 
hung  with  streamers  of  funereal  moss.  There 
was  not  a  sound  or  sign  of  human  habitation. 
The  silence  was  the  silence  of  the  ocean  at 
night.  David  remembered  the  berth  reserved 
for  him  on  the  train  to  Tampa  and  of  the  loath 
ing  with  which  he  had  considered  placing  him 
self  between  its  sheets.  But  now  how  gladly 
would  he  welcome  it !  For,  in  the  sleeping-car, 
ill-smelling,  close,  and  stuffy,  he  at  least  would 
have  been  surrounded  by  fellow-sufferers  of 
his  own  species.  Here  his  companions  were 
owls,  water-snakes,  and  sleeping  buzzards. 

"I  am  alone,"  he  told  himself,  "on  a  railroad 
embankment,  entirely  surrounded  by  alligators." 

And  then  he  found  he  was  not  alone. 

In  the  darkness,  illuminated  by  a  match,  not 
a  hundred  yards  from  him  there  flashed  suddenly 

139 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

the  face  of  a  man.  Then  the  match  went  out 
and  the  face  with  it.  David  noted  that  it  had 
appeared  at  some  height  above  the  level  of  the 
swamp,  at  an  elevation  higher  even  than  that 
of  the  embankment.  It  was  as  though  the  man 
had  been  sitting  on  the  limb  of  a  tree.  David 
crossed  the  tracks  and  found  that  on  the  side 
of  the  embankment  opposite  the  shed  there  was 
solid  ground  and  what  once  had  been  a  wharf. 
He  advanced  over  this  cautiously,  and  as  he  did 
so  the  clouds  disappeared,  and  in  the  full  light 
of  the  moon  he  saw  a  bayou  broadening  into  a 
river,  and  made  fast  to  the  decayed  and  rotting 
wharf  an  ocean-going  tug.  It  was  from  her 
deck  that  the  man,  in  lighting  his  pipe,  had 
shown  his  face.  At  the  thought  of  a  warm 
engine-room  and  the  company  of  his  fellow- 
creatures,  David's  heart  leaped  with  pleasure. 
He  advanced  quickly.  And  then  something  in 
the  appearance  of  the  tug,  something  mysterious, 
secretive,  threatening,  caused  him  to  halt.  No 
lights  showed  from  her  engine-room,  cabin,  or 
pilot-house.  Her  decks  were  empty.  But,  as 
was  evidenced  by  the  black  smoke  that  rose 
from  her  funnel,  she  was  awake  and  awake  to 
some  purpose.  David  stood  uncertainly,  ques 
tioning  whether  to  make  his  presence  known  or 
return  to  the  loneliness  of  the  shed.  The  ques 
tion  was  decided  for  him.  He  had  not  con- 

140 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

sidered  that  standing  in  the  moonlight  he  was 
a  conspicuous  figure.  The  planks  of  the  wharf 
creaked  and  a  man  came  toward  him.  As  one 
who  means  to  attack,  or  who  fears  attack,  he 
approached  warily.  He  wore  high  boots,  riding 
breeches,  and  a  sombrero.  He  was  a  little  man, 
but  his  movements  were  alert  and  active.  To 
David  he  seemed  unnecessarily  excited.  He 
thrust  himself  close  against  David. 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  demanded  the  man 
from  the  tug.  "How'd  you  get  here?" 

"I  walked,"  said  David. 

" Walked?"  the  man  snorted  incredulously. 

"I  took  the  wrong  train,"  explained  David 
pleasantly.  "They  put  me  off  about  a  mile 
below  here.  I  walked  back  to  this  flag  station. 
I'm  going  to  wait  here  for  the  next  train  north." 

The  little  man  laughed  mockingly. 

"Oh,  no  you're  not,"  he  said.  "If  you 
walked  here,  you  can  just  walk  away  again!" 
With  a  sweep  of  his  arm,  he  made  a  vigorous 
and  peremptory  gesture. 

"You  walk!"  he  commanded. 

"I'll  do  just  as  I  please  about  that,"  said 
David. 

As  though  to  bring  assistance,  the  little  man 
started  hastily  toward  the  tug. 

"I'll  find  some  one  who'll  make  you  walk!" 
he  called.  "You  wait,  that's  all,  you  wait!" 

141 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

David  decided  not  to  wait.  It  was  possible 
the  wharf  was  private  property  and  he  had 
been  trespassing.  In  any  case,  at  the  flag 
station  the  rights  of  all  men  were  equal,  and  if 
he  were  in  for  a  fight  he  judged  it  best  to  choose 
his  own  battle-ground.  He  recrossed  the  tracks 
and  sat  down  on  his  suit  case  in  a  dark  corner 
of  the  shed.  Himself  hidden  in  the  shadows  he 
could  see  in  the  moonlight  the  approach  of  any 
other  person. 

"They're  river  pirates,"  said  David  to  him 
self,  "or  smugglers.  They're  certainly  up  to 
some  mischief,  or  why  should  they  object  to 
the  presence  of  a  perfectly  harmless  stranger?" 

Partly  with  cold,  partly  with  nervousness, 
David  shivered. 

"I  wish  that  train  would  come,"  he  sighed. 
And  instantly,  as  though  in  answer  to  his  wish, 
from  only  a  short  distance  down  the  track  he 
heard  the  rumble  and  creak  of  approaching  cars. 
In  a  flash  David  planned  his  course  of  action. 

The  thought  of  spending  the  night  in  a  swamp 
infested  by  alligators  and  smugglers  had  become 
intolerable.  He  must  escape,  and  he  must  es 
cape  by  the  train  now  approaching.  To  that 
end  the  train  must  be  stopped.  His  plan  was 
simple.  The  train  was  moving  very,  very 
slowly,  and  though  he  had  no  lantern  to  wave, 
in  order  to  bring  it  to  a  halt  he  need  only  stand 

142 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

on  the  track  exposed  to  the  glare  of  the  head 
light  and  wave  his  arms.  David  sprang  be 
tween  the  rails  and  gesticulated  wildly.  But  in 
amazement  his  arms  fell  to  his  sides.  For  the 
train,  now  only  a  hundred  yards  distant  and 
creeping  toward  him  at  a  snail's  pace,  carried 
no  head-light,  and  though  in  the  moonlight 
David  was  plainly  visible,  it  blew  no  whistle, 
tolled  no  bell.  Even  the  passenger  coaches  in 
the  rear  of  the  sightless  engine  were  wrapped  in 
darkness.  It  was  a  ghost  of  a  train,  a  Flying 
Dutchman  of  a  train,  a  nightmare  of  a  train. 
It  was  as  unreal  as  the  black  swamp,  as  the 
moss  on  the  dead  trees,  as  the  ghostly  tug-boat 
tied  to  the  rotting  wharf. 

"Is  the  place  haunted!"  exclaimed  David. 

He  was  answered  by  the  grinding  of  brakes 
and  by  the  train  coming  to  a  sharp  halt.  And 
instantly  from  every  side  men  fell  from  it  to  the 
ground,  and  the  silence  of  the  night  was  broken 
by  a  confusion  of  calls  and  eager  greeting  and 
questions  and  sharp  words  of  command. 

So  fascinated  was  David  in  the  stealthy  arrival 
of  the  train  and  in  her  mysterious  passengers 
that,  until  they  confronted  him,  he  did  not  note 
the  equally  stealthy  approach  of  three  men. 
Of  these  one  was  the  little  man  from  the  tug. 
With  him  was  a  fat,  red- faced  Irish- American. 
He  wore  no  coat  and  his  shirt-sleeves  were  drawn 

143 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

away  from  his  hands  by  garters  of  pink  elastic, 
his  derby  hat  was  balanced  behind  his  ears, 
upon  his  right  hand  flashed  an  enormous  dia 
mond.  He  looked  as  though  but  at  that  moment 
he  had  stopped  sliding  glasses  across  a  Bowery 
bar.  The  third  man  carried  the  outward  marks 
of  a  sailor.  David  believed  he  was  the  tallest 
man  he  had  ever  beheld,  but  equally  remarkable 
with  his  height  was  his  beard  and  hair,  which 
were  of  a  fierce  brick-dust  red.  Even  in  the 
mild  moonlight  it  flamed  like  a  torch. 

"What's  your  business?"  demanded  the  man 
with  the  flamboyant  hair. 

"I  came  here,"  began  David,  "to  wait  for  a 
train " 

The  tall  man  bellowed  with  indignant  rage. 

"Yes,"  he  shouted;  "this  is  the  sort  of  place 
any  one  would  pick  out  to  wait  for  a  train !" 

In  front  of  David's  nose  he  shook  a  fist  as 
large  as  a  catcher's  glove.  "Don't  you  lie  to 
me/"  he  bullied.  "Do  you  know  who  I  am? 
Do  you  know  who  you're  up  against?  I'm " 

The  barkeeper  person  interrupted. 

"Never  mind  who  you  are,"  he  said.  "We 
know  that.  Find  out  who  he  is." 

David  turned  appealingly  to  the  barkeeper. 

"Do  you  suppose  I'd  come  here  on  purpose?" 
he  protested.  "I'm  a  travelling  man " 

"You  won't  travel  any  to-night,"  mocked  the 
144 


1 

CO 

72 
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cj 

Q 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

trains  wanting  to  pass,  was  unsafe.  This  doubt 
did  not  long  disturb  him.  His  head  rolled 
against  the  steel  rail,  his  limbs  relaxed.  From 
a  great  distance,  and  in  a  strange  sing-song  he 
heard  the  voice  of  the  barkeeper  saying,  "Nine 
— ten — and  out!" 

When  David  came  to  his  senses  his  head  was 
resting  on  a  coil  of  rope.  In  his  ears  was  the 
steady  throb  of  an  engine,  and  in  his  eyes  the 
glare  of  a  lantern.  The  lantern  was  held  by  a 
pleasant-faced  youth  in  a  golf  cap  who  was 
smiling  sympathetically.  David  rose  on  his 
elbow  and  gazed  wildly  about  him.  He  was  in 
the  bow  of  the  ocean-going  tug,  and  he  saw 
that  from  where  he  lay  in  the  bow  to  her  stern 
her  decks  were  packed  with  men.  She  was 
steaming  swiftly  down  a  broad  river.  On  either 
side  the  gray  light  that  comes  before  the  dawn 
showed  low  banks  studded  with  stunted  pal 
mettos.  Close  ahead  David  heard  the  roar  of 
the  surf. 

"Sorry  to  disturb  you,"  said  the  youth  in 
the  golf  cap,  "but  we  drop  the  pilot  in  a  few 
minutes  and  you're  going  with  him." 

David  moved  his  aching  head  gingerly,  and 
was  conscious  of  a  bump  as  large  as  a  tennis 
ball  behind  his  right  ear. 

"What  happened  to  me?"  he  demanded. 

"You  were  sort  of  kidnapped,  I  guess," 
146 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

laughed  the  young  man.  "It  was  a  raw  deal, 
but  they  couldn't  take  any  chances.  The  pilot 
will  land  you  at  Okra  Point.  You  can  hire  a 
rig  there  to  take  you  to  the  railroad." 

"But  why?"  demanded  David  indignantly. 
"Why  was  I  kidnapped?  What  had  I  done? 
Who  were  those  men  who— 

From  the  pilot-house  there  was  a  sharp  jan 
gle  of  bells  to  the  engine-room,  and  the  speed 
of  the  tug  slackened. 

"Come  on,"  commanded  the  young  man 
briskly.  "The  pilot's  going  ashore.  Here's 
your  grip,  here's  your  hat.  The  ladder's  on 
the  port  side.  Look  where  you're  stepping. 
We  can't  show  any  lights,  and  it's  dark  as— 

But,  even  as  he  spoke,  like  a  flash  of  powder, 
as  swiftly  as  one  throws  an  electric  switch,  as 
blindingly  as  a  train  leaps  from  the  tunnel  into 
the  glaring  sun,  the  darkness  vanished  and  the 
tug  was  swept  by  the  fierce,  blatant  radiance 
of  a  search-light. 

It  was  met  by  shrieks  from  two  hundred 
throats,  by  screams,  oaths,  prayers,  by  the 
sharp  jangling  of  bells,  by  the  blind  rush  of 
many  men  scurrying  like  rats  for  a  hole  to  hide 
in,  by  the  ringing  orders  of  one  man.  Above 
the  tumult  this  one  voice  rose  like  the  warning 
strokes  of  a  fire-gong,  and  looking  up  to  the 
pilot-house  from  whence  the  voice  came,  David 

147 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

saw  the  barkeeper  still  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and 
with  his  derby  hat  pushed  back  behind  his  ears, 
with  one  hand  clutching  the  telegraph  to  the 
engine-room,  with  the  other  holding  the  spoke 
of  the  wheel. 

David  felt  the  tug,  like  a  hunter  taking  a 
fence,  rise  in  a  great  leap.  Her  bow  sank  and 
rose,  tossing  the  water  from  her  in  black,  oily 
waves,  the  smoke  poured  from  her  funnel,  from 
below  her  engines  sobbed  and  quivered,  and 
like  a  hound  freed  from  a  leash  she  raced  for 
the  open  sea.  But  swiftly  as  she  fled,  as  a 
thief  is  held  in  the  circle  of  a  policeman's  bull's- 
eye,  the  shaft  of  light  followed  and  exposed  her 
and  held  her  in  its  grip.  The  youth  in  the  golf 
cap  was  clutching  David  b/  the  arm.  With  his 
free  hand  he  pointed  down  the  shaft  of  light. 
So  great  was  the  tumult  that  to  be  heard  he 
brought  his  lips  close  to  David's  ear. 

"That's  the  revenue  cutter!"  he  shouted. 
"She's  been  laying  for  us  for  three  weeks,  and 
now,"  he  shrieked  exultingly,  "the  old  man's 
going  to  give  her  a  race  for  it." 

From  excitement,  from  cold,  from  alarm, 
David's  nerves  were  getting  beyond  his  con 
trol. 

"But  how,"  he  demanded,  "how  do  I  get 
ashore?" 

"You  don't!" 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

"When  he  drops  the  pilot,  don't  I- 

"How  can  he  drop  the  pilot  ?"  yelled  the 
youth.  "The  pilot's  got  to  stick  by  the  boat. 
So  have  you." 

David  clutched  the  young  man  and  swung 
him  so  that  they  stood  face  to  face. 

"Stick  by  what  boat?"  yeAed  David.  "Who 
are  these  men?  Who  are  you?  What  boat  is 
this?" 

In  the  glare  of  the  search-light  David  saw 
the  eyes  of  the  youth  staring  at  him  as  though 
he  feared  he  were  in  the  clutch  of  a  madman. 
Wrenching  himself  free,  the  youth  pointed  at 
the  pilot-house.  Above  it  on  a  blue  board  in 
letters  of  gold-leaf  a  foot  high  was  the  name  of 
the  tug.  As  David  read  it  his  breath  left  him, 
a  finger  of  ice  passed  slowly  down  his  spine. 
The  name  he  read  was  The  Three  Friends. 

"  The  Three  Friends!"  shrieked  David.  "She's 
a  filibuster !  She's  a  pirate !  Where're  we  go- 
ing?" 

"To  Cuba!" 

David  emitted  a  howl  of  anguish,  rage,  and 
protest. 

"What  for?"  he  shrieked. 

The  young  man  regarded  him  coldly. 

"To  pick  bananas,"  he  said. 

"  I  won't  go  to  Cuba,"  shouted  David.  "  I've 
got  to  work!  I'm  paid  to  sell  machinery.  I 

149 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

demand  to  be  put  ashore.  I'll  lose  my  job  if 
I'm  not  put  ashore.  I'll  sue  you !  I'll  have 
the  law- 
David  found  himself  suddenly  upon  his  knees. 
His  first  thought  was  that  the  ship  had  struck 
a  rock,  and  then  that  she  was  bumping  herself 
over  a  succession  of  coral  reefs.  She  dipped, 
dived,  reared,  and  plunged.  Like  a  hooked 
fish,  she  flung  herself  in  the  air,  quivering  from 
bow  to  stern.  No  longer  was  David  of  a  mind 
to  sue  the  filibusters  if  they  did  not  put  him 
ashore.  If  only  they  had  put  him  ashore,  in 
gratitude  he  would  have  crawled  on  his  knees. 
What  followed  was  of  no  interest  to  David,  nor 
to  many  of  the  filibusters,  nor  to  any  of  the 
Cuban  patriots.  Their  groans  of  self-pity,  their 
prayers  and  curses  in  eloquent  Spanish,  rose 
high  above  the  crash  of  broken  crockery  and 
the  pounding  of  the  waves.  Even  when  the 
searchlight  gave  way  to  a  brilliant  sunlight  the 
circumstance  was  unobserved  by  David.  Nor 
was  he  concerned  in  the  tidings  brought  for 
ward  by  the  youth  in  the  golf  cap,  who  raced 
the  slippery  decks  and  vaulted  the  prostrate 
forms  as  sure-footedly  as  a  hurdler  on  a  cinder 
track.  To  David,  in  whom  he  seemed  to  think 
he  had  found  a  congenial  spirit,  he  shouted 
joyfully,  "She's  fired  two  blanks  at  us!"  he 
cried;  "now  she's  firing  cannon-balls!" 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

"Thank  God,"  whispered  David;  "perhaps 
she'll  sink  us !" 

But  The  Three  Friends  showed  her  heels  to 
the  revenue  cutter,  and  so  far  as  David  knew 
hours  passed  into  days  and  days  into  weeks. 
It  was  like  those  nightmares  in  which  in  a 
minute  one  is  whirled  through  centuries  of  fear 
and  torment.  Sometimes,  regardless  of  nausea, 
of  his  aching  head,  of  the  hard  deck,  of  the 
waves  that  splashed  and  smothered  him,  David 
fell  into  broken  slumber.  Sometimes  he  woke 
to  a  dull  consciousness  of  his  position.  At  such 
moments  he  added  to  his  misery  by  speculating 
upon  the  other  misfortunes  that  might  have 
befallen  him  on  shore.  Emily,  he  decided,  had 
given  him  up  for  lost  and  married — probably  a 
navy  officer  in  command  of  a  battle-ship.  Bur- 
dett  and  Sons  had  cast  him  off  forever.  Possi 
bly  his  disappearance  had  caused  them  to  sus 
pect  him;  even  now  they  might  be  regarding 
him  as  a  defaulter,  as  a  fugitive  from  justice. 
His  accounts,  no  doubt,  were  being  carefully 
overhauled.  In  actual  time,  two  days  and  two 
nights  had  passed;  to  David  it  seemed  many 
ages. 

On  the  third  day  he  crawled  to  the  stern, 
where  there  seemed  less  motion,  and  finding  a 
boat's  cushion  threw  it  in  the  lee  scupper  and 
fell  upon  it.  From  time  to  time  the  youth  in 

151 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

the  golf  cap  had  brought  him  food  and  drink, 
and  he  now  appeared  from  the  cook's  galley 
bearing  a  bowl  of  smoking  soup. 

David  considered  it  a  doubtful  attention. 

But  he  said,  "You're  very  kind.  How  did  a 
fellow  like  you  come  to  mix  up  with  these 
pirates?" 

The  youth  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"  They're  not  pirates,  they're  patriots,"   he 
said,  "and  I'm  not  mixed  up  with  them.     My 
name  is  Henry  Carr  and  I'm  a  guest  of  Jimmy 
Doyle,  the  captain." 

"The  barkeeper  with  the  derby  hat?"  said 
David. 

"He's  not  a  barkeeper,  he's  a  teetotaler," 
Carr  corrected,  "and  he's  the  greatest  filibuster 
alive.  He  knows  these  waters  as  you  know 
Broadway,  and  he's  the  salt  of  the  earth.  I 
did  him  a  favor  once;  sort  of  mouse-helping- 
the-Iion  idea.  Just  through  dumb  luck  I  found 
out  about  this  expedition.  The  government 
agents  in  New  York  found  out  I'd  found  out 
and  sent  for  me  to  tell.  But  I  didn't,  and  I 
didn't  write  the  story  either.  Doyle  heard 
about  that.  So,  he  asked  me  to  come  as  his 
guest,  and  he's  promised  that  after  he's  landed 
the  expedition  and  the  arms  I  can  write  as 
much  about  it  as  I  darn  please." 

"Then  you're  a  reporter?"  said  David. 
152 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

"I'm  what  we  call  a  cub  reporter/'  laughed 
Carr.  "You  see,  I've  always  dreamed  of  being 
a  war  correspondent.  The  men  in  the  office 
say  I  dream  too  much.  They're  always  guying 
me  about  it.  But,  haven't  you  noticed,  it's 
the  ones  who  dream  who  find  their  dreams  come 
true.  Now  this  isn't  real  war,  but  it's  a  near 
war,  and  when  the  real  thing  breaks  loose,  I 
can  tell  the  managing  editor  I  served  as  a  war 
correspondent  in  the  Cuban-Spanish  campaign. 
And  he  may  give  me  a  real  job !" 

"And  you  like  this?"  groaned  David. 

"I  wouldn't,  if  I  were  as  sick  as  you  are," 
said  Carr,  "but  I've  a  stomach  like  a  Harlem 
goat."  He  stooped  and  lowered  his  voice. 
"Now,  here  are  two  fake  filibusters,"  he  whis 
pered.  "The  men  you  read  about  in  the  news 
papers.  If  a  man's  a  real  filibuster,  nobody 
knows  it!" 

Coming  toward  them  was  the  tall  man  who 
had  knocked  David  out,  and  the  little  one  who 
had  wanted  to  tie  him  to  a  tree. 

"All  they  ask,"  whispered  Carr,  "is  money 
and  advertisement.  If  they  knew  I  was  a  re 
porter,  they'd  eat  out  of  my  hand.  The  tall 
man  calls  himself  Lighthouse  Harry.  He  once 
kept  a  light-house  on  the  Florida  coast,  and 
that's  as  near  to  the  sea  as  he  ever  got.  The 
other  one  is  a  dare-devil  calling  himself  Colonel 

153 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

Beamish.  He  says  he's  an  English  officer,  and 
a  soldier  of  fortune,  and  that  he's  been  in 
eighteen  battles.  Jimmy  says  he's  never  been 
near  enough  to  a  battle  to  see  the  red-cross 
flags  on  the  base  hospital.  But  they've  fooled 
these  Cubans.  The  Junta  thinks  they're  great 
fighters,  and  it's  sent  them  down  here  to  work 
the  machine  guns.  But  I'm  afraid  the  only 
fighting  they  will  do  will  be  in  the  sporting 
columns,  and  not  in  the  ring." 

A  half  dozen  sea-sick  Cubans  were  carrying  a 
heavy,  oblong  box.  They  dropped  it  not  two 
yards  from  where  David  lay,  and  with  a  screw 
driver  Lighthouse  Harry  proceeded  to  open 
the  lid. 

Carr  explained  to  David  that  The  Three 
Friends  was  approaching  that  part  of  the  coast 
of  Cuba  on  which  she  had  arranged  to  land  her 
expedition,  and  that  in  case  she  was  surprised 
by  one  of  the  Spanish  patrol  boats  she  was 
preparing  to  defend  herself. 

.  "They've  got  an  automatic  gun  in  that  crate," 
said  Carr,  "and  they're  going  to  assemble  it. 
You'd  better  move;  they'll  be  tramping  all 
over  you." 

David  shook  his  head  feebly. 

"I  can't  move!"  he  protested.  "I  wouldn't 
move  if  it  would  free  Cuba." 

For  several  hours  with  very  languid  interest 
154 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

David  watched  Lighthouse  Harry  and  Colonel 
Beamish  screw  a  heavy  tripod  to  the  deck  and 
balance  above  it  a  quick-firing  one-pounder. 
They  worked  very  slowly,  and  to  David,  watch 
ing  them  from  the  lee  scupper,  they  appeared 
extremely  unintelligent. 

"I  don't  believe  either  of  those  thugs  put  an 
automatic  gun  together  in  his  life,"  he  whispered 
to  Carr.  "I  never  did,  either,  but  I've  put  hun 
dreds  of  automatic  punches  together,  and  I  bet 
that  gun  won't  work." 

"What's  wrong  with  it?"  said  Carr. 

Before  David  could  summon  sufficient  energy 
to  answer,  the  attention  of  all  on  board  was 
diverted,  and  by  a  single  word. 

Whether  the  word  is  whispered  apologetically 
by  the  smoking-room  steward  to  those  deep  in 
bridge,  or  shrieked  from  the  tops  of  a  sinking 
ship  it  never  quite  fails  of  its  effect.  A  sweat 
ing  stoker  from  the  engine-room  saw  it  first. 

"Land!"  he  hailed. 

The  sea-sick  Cubans  raised  themselves  and 
swung  their  hats;  their  voices  rose  in  a  fierce 
chorus. 

"Cubalibre!"  they  yelled. 

The  sun  piercing  the  morning  mists  had  un 
covered  a  coast-line  broken  with  bays  and  inlets. 
Above  it  towered  green  hills,  the  peak  of  each 
topped  by  a  squat  blockhouse;  in  the  valleys 

155 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

and  water  courses  like  columns  of  marble  rose 
the  royal  palms. 

"You  must  look!"  Carr  entreated  David. 
"It's  just  as  it  is  in  the  pictures!" 

"Then  I  don't  have  to  look,"  groaned  David. 

The  Three  Friends  was  making  for  a  point  of 
land  that  curved  like  a  sickle.  On  the  inside  of 
the  sickle  was  Nipe  Bay.  On  the  opposite  shore 
of  that  broad  harbor  at  the  place  of  rendezvous 
a  little  band  of  Cubans  waited  to  receive  the 
filibusters.  The  goal  was  in  sight.  The  dread 
ful  voyage  was  done.  Joy  and  excitement 
thrilled  the  ship's  company.  Cuban  patriots 
appeared  in  uniforms  with  Cuban  flags  pinned 
in  the  brims  of  their  straw  sombreros.  From 
the  hold  came  boxes  of  small-arm  ammunition, 
of  ?vlausers,  rifles,  machetes,  and  saddles.  To 
protect  the  landing  a  box  of  shells  was  placed 
in  readiness  beside  the  one-pounder. 

"In  two  hours,  if  we  have  smooth  water," 
shouted  Lighthouse  Harry,  "we  ought  to  get  all 
of  this  on  shore.  And  then,  all  I  ask,"  he  cried 
mightily,  "is  for  some  one  to  kindly  show  me  a 
Spaniard!" 

His  heart's  desire  was  instantly  granted.  He 
was  shown  not  only  one  Spaniard,  but  several 
Spaniards.  They  were  on  the  deck  of  one  of 
the  fastest  gun-boats  of  the  Spanish  navy. 
Not  a  mile  from  The  Three  Friends  she  sprang 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

from  the  cover  of  a  narrow  inlet.  She  did  not 
signal  questions  or  extend  courtesies.  For  her 
the  name  of  the  ocean-going  tug  was  sufficient 
introduction.  Throwing  ahead  of  her  a  solid 
shell,  she  raced  in  pursuit,  and  as  The  Three 
Friends  leaped  to  full  speed  there  came  from 
the  gun-boat  the  sharp  dry  crackle  of  Mau 
sers. 

With  an  explosion  of  terrifying  oaths  Light 
house  Harry  thrust  a  shell  into  the  breech  of 
the  quick-firing  gun.  Without  waiting  to  aim 
it,  he  tugged  at  the  trigger.  Nothing  happened ! 
He  threw  open  the  breech  and  gazed  impotently 
at  the  base  of  the  shell.  It  was  untouched. 
The  ship  was  ringing  with  cries  of  anger,  of 
hate,  with  rat-like  squeaks  of  fear. 

Above  the  heads  of  the  filibusters  a  shell 
screamed  and  within  a  hundred  feet  splashed 
into  a  wave. 

From  his  mat  in  the  lee  scupper  David 
groaned  miserably.  He  was  far  removed  from 
any  of  the  greater  emotions. 

"It's  no  use!"  he  protested.  "They  can't 
do!  It's  not  connected!" 

"What's  not  connected?"  yelled  Carr.  He 
fell  upon  David.  He  half-lifted,  half-dragged 
him  to  his  feet. 

"If  you  know  what's  wrong  with  that  gun, 

you  fix  it!     Fix  it,"  he  shouted,  "or  I'll ' 

157 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

David  was  not  concerned  with  the  vengeance 
Carr  threatened.  For,  on  the  instant  a  mira 
cle  had  taken  place.  With  the  swift  insidious- 
ness  of  morphine,  peace  ran  through  his  veins, 
soothed  his  racked  body,  his  jangled  nerves. 
The  Three  Friends  had  made  the  harbor,  and 
was  gliding  through  water  flat  as  a  pond.  But 
David  did  not  know  why  the  change  had  come. 
He  knew  only  that  his  soul  and  body  were  at 
rest,  that  the  sun  was  shining,  that  he  had 
passed  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow,  and 
once  more  was  a  sane,  sound  young  man. 

With  a  savage  thrust  of  the  shoulder  he  sent 
Lighthouse  Harry  sprawling  from  the  gun. 
With  swift,  practised  fingers  he  fell  upon  its 
mechanism.  He  wrenched  it  apart.  He  lifted 
it,  reset,  readjusted  it. 

Ignorant  themselves,  those  about  him  saw 
that  he  understood,  saw  that  his  work  was 
good. 

They  raised  a  joyous,  defiant  cheeV.  But  a 
shower  of  bullets  drove  them  to  cover,  bullets 
that  ripped  the  deck,  splintered  the  superstruc 
ture,  smashed  the  glass  in  the  air  ports,  like 
angry  wasps  sang  in  a  continuous  whining 
chorus.  Intent  only  on  the  gun,  David  worked 
feverishly.  He  swung  to  the  breech,  locked  it, 
and  dragged  it  open,  pulled  on  the  trigger  and 
found  it  gave  before  his  forefinger. 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

He  shouted  with  delight. 

"I've  got  it  working,"  he  yelled. 

He  turned  to  his  audience,  but  his  audience 
had  fled.  From  beneath  one  of  the  life-boats 
protruded  the  riding-boots  of  Colonel  Beamish, 
the  tall  form  of  Lighthouse  Harry  was  doubled 
behind  a  water  butt.  A  shell  splashed  to  port, 
a  shell  splashed  to  starboard.  For  an  instant 
David  stood  staring  wide-eyed  at  the  greyhound 
of  a  boat  that  ate  up  the  distance  between  them, 
at  the  jets  of  smoke  and  stabs  of  flame  that 
sprang  from  her  bow,  at  the  figures  crouched 
behind  her  gunwale,  firing  in  volleys. 

To  David  it  came  suddenly,  convincingly, 
that  in  a  dream  he  had  lived  it  all  before,  and 
something  like  raw  poison  stirred  in  David, 
something  leaped  to  his  throat  and  choked  him, 
sometKing  rose  in  his  brain  and  made  him  see 
scarlet.  He  felt  rather  than  saw  young  Carl 
kneeling  at  the  box  of  ammunition,  and  holding 
a  shell  toward  him.  He  heard  the  click  as  the 
breech  shut,  felt  the  rubber  tire  of  the  brace 
give  against  the  weight  of  his  shoulder,  down 
a  long  shining  tube  saw  the  pursuing  gun-boat^ 
saw  her  again  and  many  times  disappear  be 
hind  a  flash  of  flame.  A  bullet  gashed  his  fore 
head,  a  bullet  passed  deftly  through  his  fore 
arm,  but  he  did  not  heed  them.  Confused  with 
the  thrashing  of  the  engines,  with  the  roar  of 

159 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

the  gun  he  heard  a  strange  voice  shrieking  un 
ceasingly  : 

"Cuba    libre!"    it    yelled.     "To    hell   with 
Spain!"  a^d  he  found  that  tKe  voice  was  his 


V  St*/ry  lose  nothing  in  trie  way  Carr 
wrote  it. 

"And  the  best  of  it  is,"  he  exclaimed  joy 
fully,  "it's  true!" 

For  a  Spanish  gun-boat  had  been  crippled 
and  forced  to  run  herself  aground  by  a  tug-boat 
manned  by  Cuban  patriots,  and  by  a  single 
gun  served  by  one  man,  and  that  man  an 
American.  It  was  the  first  sea-fight  of  the 
war.  Over  night  a  Cuban  navy  had  been 
born,  and  into  the  limelight  a  cub  reporter  had 
projected  a  new  "hero,"  a  ready-made,  war- 
ranted-not-  to-run,  popular  idol. 

They  were  seated  in  the  pilot-house,  "Jim 
my"  Doyle,  Carr,  and  David,  the  patriots  and 
their  arms  had  been  safely  dumped  upon  the 
coast  of  Cuba,  and  The  Three  Friends  was  glid 
ing  swiftly  and,  having  caught  the  Florida 
straits  napping,  smoothly  toward  Key  West. 
Carr  had  just  finished  reading  aloud  his  ac 
count  of  the  engagement. 

You  will  tell  the  story  just  as  I  have  written 
it,"  commanded  the  proud  author.  "Your 
being  South  as  a  travelling  salesman  was  only 

1  60 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

a  blind.  You  came  to  volunteer  for  this  expe 
dition.  Before  you  could  explain  your  wish 
you  were  mistaken  for  a  secret-service  man, 
and  hustled  on  board.  That  was  just  where 
you  wanted  to  be,  and  when  the  moment  ar 
rived  you  took  command  of  the  ship  and  single- 
handed  won  the  naval  battle  of  Nipe  Bay." 

Jimmy  Doyle  nodded  his  head  approvingly. 
"You  certainly  did,  Dave,"  protested  the  great 
man,  "I  seen  you  when  you  done  it !" 

At  Key  West  Carr  filed  his  story  and  while 
the  hospital  surgeons  kept  David  there  over 
one  steamer,  to  dress  his  wounds,  his  fame  and 
features  spread  across  the  map  of  the  United 
States. 

Burdett  and  Sons  basked  in  reflected  glory. 
Reporters  besieged  their  office.  At  the  Mer 
chants  Down-Town  Club  the  business  men  of 
lower  Broadway  tendered  congratulations. 

"Of  course,  it's  a  great  surprise  to  us,"  Bur 
dett  and  Sons  would  protest  and  wink  heavily. 
"Of  course,  when  the  boy  asked  to  be  sent 
South  we'd  no  idea  he  was  planning  to  fight  for 
Cuba !  Or  we  wouldn't  have  let  him  go,  would 
we?"  Then  again  they  would  wink  heavily. 
"I  suppose  you  know,"  they  would  say,  "that 
he's  a  direct  descendant  of  General  Hiram 
Greene,  who  won  the  battle  of  Trenton.  What 
I  say  is,  'Blood  will  tell!'"  And  then  in  a 

161 


BLOOD  WILL  TELL 

body  every  one  in  the  club  would  move  against 
the  bar  and  exclaim:  "Here's  to  Cuba  libre!" 

When  the  Olivette  from  Key  West  reached 
Tampa  Bay  every  Cuban  in  the  Tampa  cigar 
factories  was  at  the  dock.  There  were  thou 
sands  of  them  and  all  of  the  Junta,  in  high  hats, 
to  read  David  an  address  of  welcome. 

And,  when  they  saw  him  at  the  top  of  the 
gang-plank  with  his  head  in  a  bandage  and 
his  arm  in  a  sling,  like  a  mob  of  maniacs  they 
howled  and  surged  toward  him.  But  before 
they  could  reach  their  hero  the  courteous  Junta 
forced  them  back,  and  cleared  a  pathway  for  a 
young  girl.  She  was  travel-worn  and  pale,  her 
shirt-waist  was  disgracefully  wrinkled,  her  best 
hat  was  a  wreck.  No  one  on  Broadway  would 
have  recognized  her  as  Burdett  and  Sons'  most 
immaculate  and  beautiful  stenographer. 

She  dug  the  shapeless  hat  into  David's 
shoulder,  arid  clung  to  him.  "David!"  she 
sobbed,  "promise  me  you'll  never,  never  do  it 
again!" 


162 


THE  SAILORMAN 

BEFORE  Latimer  put  him  on  watch,  the  Nan- 
tucket  sailorman  had  not  a  care  in  the  world. 
If  the  wind  blew  from  the  north,  he  spun  to  the 
left;  if  it  came  from  the  south,  he  spun  to  the 
right.  But  it  was  entirely  the  wind  that  was 
responsible.  So,  whichever  way  he  turned,  he 
smiled  broadly,  happily.  His  outlook  upon  the 
world  was  that  of  one  who  loved  his  fellow-man. 
He  had  many  brothers  as  like  him  as  twins  all 
over  Nantucket  and  Cape  Cod  and  the  North 
Shore,  smiling  from  the  railings  of  verandas, 
from  the  roofs  of  bungalows,  from  the  eaves  of 
summer  palaces.  Empaled  on  their  little  iron 
uprights,  each  sailorman  whirled — sometimes 
languidly,  like  a  great  lady  revolving  to  the  slow 
measures  of  a  waltz,  sometimes  so  rapidly  that 
he  made  you  quite  dizzy,  and  had  he  not  been 
a  sailorman  with  a  heart  of  oak  and  a  head  and 
stomach  of  pine,  he  would  have  been  quite  sea 
sick.  But  the  particular  sailorman  that  Latimer 
bought  for  Helen  Page  and  put  on  sentry  duty 
carried  on  his  shoulders  most  grave  and  un 
usual  responsibilities.  He  was  the  guardian  of  a 
buried  treasure,  the  keeper  of  the  happiness  of 


THE  SAILORMAN 

two  young  people.  It  was  really  asking  a  great 
deal  of  a  care-free,  happy-go-lucky  weather- 
vane. 

Every  summer  from  Boston  Helen  Page's 
people  had  been  coming  to  Fair  Harbor.  They 
knew  it  when  what  now  is  the  polo  field  was 
their  cow  pasture.  And  whether  at  the  age  of 
twelve  or  of  twenty  or  more,  Helen  Page  ruled 
Fair  Harbor.  When  she  arrived  the  "season" 
opened;  when  she  departed  the  local  trades 
people  sighed  and  began  to  take  account  of 
stock.  She  was  so  popular  because  she  pos 
sessed  charm,  and  because  she  played  no  favor 
ites.  To  the  grooms  who  held  the  ponies  on 
the  side-lines  her  manner  was  just  as  simple 
and  interested  as  it  was  to  the  gilded  youths 
who  came  to  win  the  championship  cups  and 
remained  to  try  to  win  Helen.  She  was  just  as 
genuinely  pleased  to  make  a  four  at  tennis  with 
the  "kids"  as  to  take  tea  on  the  veranda  of  the 
club-house  with  the  matrons.  To  each  her 
manner  was  always  as  though  she  were  of  their 
age.  When  she  met  the  latter  on  the  beach 
road,  she  greeted  them  riotously  and  joyfully 
by  their  maiden  names.  And  the  matrons 
liked  it.  In  comparison  the  deference  shown 
them  by  the  other  young  women  did  not  so 
strongly  appeal. 

"When  I'm  jogging  along  in  my  station 
164 


THE  SAILORMAN 

wagon,"  said  one  of  them,  "and  Helen  shrieks 
and  waves  at  me  from  her  car,  I  feel  as  though 
I  were  twenty,  and  I  believe  that  she  is  really 
sorry  I  am  not  sitting  beside  her,  instead  of 
that  good-looking  Latimer  man,  who  never 
wears  a  hat.  Why  does  he  never  wear  a  hat? 
Because  he  knows  he's  good-looking,  or  because 
Helen  drives  so  fast  he  can't  keep  it  on?" 

"Does  he  wear  a  hat  when  he  is  not  with 
Helen?"  asked  the  new  arrival.  "That  might 
help  some." 

"We  will  never  know,"  exclaimed  the  young 
matron;  "he  never  leaves  her." 

This  was  so  true  that  it  had  become  a  public 
scandal.  You  met  them  so  many  times  a  day 
driving  together,  motoring  together,  playing 
golf  together,  that  you  were  embarrassed  for 
them  and  did  not  know  which  way  to  look. 
But  they  gloried  in  their  shame.  If  you  tact 
fully  pretended  not  to  see  them,  Helen  shouted 
at  you.  She  made  you  feel  you  had  been 
caught  doing  something  indelicate  and  under 
hand. 

The  mothers  of  Fair  Harbor  were  rather  slow 
in  accepting  young  Latimer.  So  many  of  their 
sons  had  seen  Helen  shake  her  head  in  that  in 
articulate,  worried  way,  and  look  so  sorry  for 
them,  that  any  strange  young  man  who  appar 
ently  succeeded  where  those  who  had  been  her 

165 


THE  SAILORMAN 

friends  for  years  had  learned  they  must  remain 
friends,  could  not  hope  to  escape  criticism. 
Besides,  they  did  not  know  him:  he  did  not 
come  from  Boston  and  Harvard,  but  from  a 
Western  city.  They  were  told  that  at  home, 
at  both  the  law  and  the  game  of  politics,  he 
worked  hard  and  successfully;  but  it  was 
rather  held  against  him  by  the  youth  of  Fair 
Harbor  that  he  played  at  other  games,  not  so 
much  for  the  sake  of  the  game  as  for  exercise. 
He  put  aside  many  things,  such  as  whiskey 
and  soda  at  two  in  the  morning,  and  bridge  all 
afternoon,  with  the  remark:  "I  find  it  does  not 
tend  toward  efficiency."  It  was  a  remark  that 
irritated  and,  to  the  minds  of  the  men  at  the 
country  clubs,  seemed  to  place  him.  They 
liked  to  play  polo  because  they  liked  to  play 
polo,  not  because  it  kept  their  muscles  limber 
and  their  brains  clear. 

"Some  Western  people  were  telling  me," 
said  one  of  the  matrons,  "that  he  wants  to  be 
the  next  lieutenant-governor.  They  say  he  is 
very  ambitious  and  very  selfish." 

"Any  man  is  selfish,"  protested  one  who  for 
years  had  attempted  to  marry  Helen,  "who 
wants  to  keep  Helen  to  himself.  But  that  he 
should  wish  to  be  a  lieutenant-governor,  too, 
is  rather  an  anticlimax.  It  makes  one  lose 
sympathy." 

166 


THE  SAILORMAN 

Latimer  went  on  his  way  without  asking  any 
sympathy.  The  companionship  of  Helen  Page 
was  quite  sufficient.  He  had  been  working 
overtime  and  was  treating  himself  to  his  first 
vacation  in  years — he  was  young — he  was  in 
love — and  he  was  very  happy.  Nor  was  there 
any  question,  either,  that  Helen  Page  was 
happy.  Those  who  had  known  her  since  she 
was  a  child  could  not  remember  when  she  had 
not  been  happy,  but  these  days  she  wore  her 
joyousness  with  a  difference.  It  was  in  her 
eyes,  in  her  greetings  to  old  friends:  it  showed 
itself  hourly  in  courtesies  and  kindnesses.  She 
was  very  I^ind  to  Latimer,  too.  She  did  not 
deceive  him.  She  told  him  she  liked  better  to 
be  with  him  than  with  any  one  else, — it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  deny  to  him  what  was 
apparent  to  an  entire  summer  colony, — but  she 
explained  that  that  did  not  mean  she  would 
marry  him.  She  announced  this  when  the 
signs  she  knew  made  it  seem  necessary.  She 
announced  it  in  what  was  for  her  a  roundabout 
way,  by  remarking  suddenly  that  she  did  not 
intend  to  marry  for  several  years. 

This  brought  Latimer  to  his  feet  and  called 
forth  from  him  remarks  so  eloquent  that  Helen 
found  it  very  difficult  to  keep  her  own.  She 
felt  as  though  she  had  been  caught  in  an  under 
tow  and  was  being  whirled  out  to  sea.  When, 


THE  SAILORMAN 

at  last,  she  had  regained  her  breath,  only 
because  Latimer  had  paused  to  catch  his,  she 
shook  her  head  miserably. 

"The  trouble  is,"  she  complained,  "there  are 
so  many  think  the  same  thing ! " 

"What  do  they  think?"  demanded  Latimer. 

"That  they  want  to  marry  me." 

Checked  but  not  discouraged,  Latimer  at 
tacked  in  force. 

"I  can  quite  believe  that,"  he  agreed,  "but 
there's  this  important  difference:  no  matter 
how  much  a  man  wants  to  marry  you,  he  can't 
love  you  as  I  do !" 

"That's  another  thing  they  think,"  sighed 
Helen. 

"I'm  sorry  to  be  so  unoriginal,"  snapped 
Latimer. 

"Please  don't!"  pleaded  Helen.  "I  don't 
mean  to  be  unfeeling.  I'm  not  unfeeling.  I'm 
only  trying  to  be  fair.  If  I  don't  seem  to  take 
it  to  heart,  it's  because  I  know  it  does  no  good. 
I  can  see  how  miserable  a  girl  must  be  if  she  is 
loved  by  one  man  and  can't  make  up  her  mind 
whether  or  not  she  wants  to  marry  him.  But 
when  there's  so  many  she  just  stops  worrying; 
for  she  can't  possibly  marry  them  all." 

"All!"  exclaimed  Latimer.  "It  is  incredible 
that  I  have  undervalued  you,  but  may  I  ask 
how  many  there  are?" 

168 


THE  SAILORMAN 

"I  don't  know,"  sighed  Helen  miserably. 
"There  seems  to  be  something  about  me 
that- 

" There  is!"  interrupted  Latimer.  "I've  no 
ticed  it.  You  don't  have  to  tell  me  about  it. 
I  know  that  the  Helen  Page  habit  is  a  damned 
difficult  habit  to  break!" 

It  cannot  be  said  that  he  made  any  violent 
effort  to  break  it.  At  least,  not  one  that  was 
obvious  to  Fair  Harbor  or  to  Helen. 

One  of  their  favorite  drives  was  through  the 
pine  woods  to  the  point  on  which  stood  the 
lighthouse,  and  on  one  of  these  excursions  they 
explored  a  forgotten  wood  road  and  came  out 
upon  a  cliff.  The  cliff  overlooked  the  sea,  and 
below  it  was  a  jumble  of  rocks  with  which  the 
waves  played  hide  and  seek.  On  many  after 
noons  and  mornings  they  returned  to  this  place, 
and,  while  Latimer  read  to  her,  Helen  would 
sit  with  her  back  to  a  tree  and  toss  pine-cones 
into  the  water.  Sometimes  the  poets  whose 
works  he  read  made  love  so  charmingly  that 
Latimer  was  most  grateful  to  them  for  rendering 
such  excellent  first  aid  to  the  wounded,  and  into 
his  voice  he  would  throw  all  that  feeling  and 
music  that  from  juries  and  mass  meetings  had 
dragged  tears  and  cheers  and  votes. 

But  when  his  voice  became  so  appealing  that 
it  no  longer  was  possible  for  any  woman  to 

169 


THE  SAILORMAN 

resist  it,  Helen  would  exclaim  excitedly:  "Please 
excuse  me  for  interrupting,  but  there  is  a  large 
spider — "  and  the  spell  was  gone. 

One  day  she  exclaimed:  "Oh!"  and  Latimer 
patiently  lowered  the  "Oxford  Book  of  Verse," 
and  asked:  "What  is  it,  now?" 

"I'm  50  sorry/'  Helen  said,  "but  I  can't  help 
watching  that  Chapman  boy;  he's  only  got 
one  reef  in,  and  the  next  time  he  jibs  he'll 
capsize,  and  he  can't  swim,  and  he'll  drown. 
I  told  his  mother  only  yesterday 

"I  haven't  the  least  interest  in  the  Chapman 
boy,"  said  Latimer,  "or  in  what  you  told  his 
mother,  or  whether  he  drowns  or  not!  I'm  a 
drowning  man  myself!" 

Helen  shook  her  head  firmly  and  reprovingly. 
"Men  get  over  that  kind  of  drowning,"  she  said. 

"Not  this  kind  of  man  doesn't !"  said  Latimer. 
"And  don't  tell  me,"  he  cried  indignantly,  "that 
that's  another  thing  they  all  say." 

"If  one  could  only  be  sure!"  sighed  Helen. 
"If  one  could  only  be  sure  that  you — that  the 
right  man  would  keep  on  caring  after  you  marry 
him  the  way  he  says  he  cares  before  you  marry 
him.  If  you  could  know  that,  it  would  help 
you  a  lot  in  making  up  your  mind." 

"There  is  only  one  way  to  find  that  out,"  said 
Latimer;  "that  is  to  marry  him.  I  mean,  of 
course,"  he  corrected  hastily,  "to  marry  me." 

170 


THE  SAILORMAN 

One  day,  when  on  their  way  to  the  cliff  at 
the  end  of  the  wood  road,  the  man  who  makes 
the  Nantucket  sailor  and  peddles  him  passed 
through  the  village;  and  Latimer  bought  the 
sailorman  and  carried  him  to  their  hiding-place. 
There  he  fastened  him  to  the  lowest  limb  of  one 
of  the  ancient  pine-trees  that  helped  to  screen 
their  hiding-place  from  the  world.  The  limb 
reached  out  free  of  the  other  branches,  and  the 
wind  caught  the  sailorman  fairly  and  spun  him 
like  a  dancing  dervish.  Then  it  tired  of  him, 
and  went  off  to  try  to  drown  the  Chapman  boy, 
leaving  the  sailorman  motionless  with  his  arms 
outstretched,  balancing  in  each  hand  a  tiny 
oar  and  smiling  happily. 

"He  has  a  friendly  smile/'  said  Helen;  "I 
think  he  likes  us." 

"He  is  on  guard,"  Latimer  explained.  " I  put 
him  there  to  warn  us  if  any  one  approaches, 
and  when  we  are  not  here,  he  is  to  frighten 
away  trespassers.  Do  you  understand?"  he 
demanded  of  the  sailorman.  "Your  duty  is  to 
protect  this  beautiful  lady.  So  long  as  I  love 
her  you  must  guard  this  place.  It  is  a  life 
sentence.  You  are  always  on  watch.  You 
never  sleep.  You  are  her  slave.  She  says  you 
have  a  friendly  smile.  She  wrongs  you.  It  is 
a  beseeching,  abject,  worshipping  smile.  I  am 
sure  when  I  look  at  her  mine  is  equally  idiotic. 

171 


THE  SAILORMAN 

In  fact,  we  are  in  many  ways  alike.  I  also  am 
her  slave.  I  also  am  devoted  only  to  her  ser 
vice.  And  I  never  sleep,  at  least  not  since  I 
met  her." 

From  her  throne  among  the  pine-needles 
Helen  looked  up  at  the  sailorman  and  frowned. 

"It  is  not  a  happy  simile,"  sne  objected. 
"For  one  thing,  a  sailorman  has  a  sweetheart 
in  every  port." 

"Wait  and  see,"  said  Latimer. 

"And,"  continued  the  girl  with  some  asperity, 
"if  there  is  anything  on  earth  that  changes  its 
mind  as  often  as  a  weather-vane,  that  is  less 
certain,  less  constant — 

"Constant?"  Latimer  laughed  at  her  in  open 
scorn.  "You  come  back  here,"  he  challenged, 
"months  from  now,  years  from  now,  when  the 
winds  have  beaten  him,  and  the  sun  blistered 
him,  and  the  snow  frozen  him,  and  you  will  find 
him  smiling  at  you  just  as  he  is  now,  just  as 
confidently,  proudly,  joyously,  devotedly.  Be 
cause  those  who  are  your  slaves,  those  who 
love  you,  cannot  come  to  any  harm;  only  if 
you  disown  them,  only  if  you  drive  them 
away !" 

The  sailorman,  delighted  at  such  beautiful 
language,  threw  himself  about  in  a  delirium  of 
joy.  His  arms  spun  in  their  sockets  like  Indian 
clubs,  his  oars  flashed  in  the  sun,  and  his  eyes 

172 


THE  SAILORMAN 

and  lips  were  fixed  in  one  blissful,  long-drawn- 
out,  unalterable  smile. 

When  the  golden-rod  turned  gray,  and  the 
leaves  red  and  yellow,  and  it  was  time  for 
Latimer  to  return  to  his  work  in  the  West,  he 
came  to  say  good-by.  But  the  best  Helen  could 
do  to  keep  hope  alive  in  him  was  to  say  that  she 
was  glad  he  cared.  She  added  it  was  very  help 
ful  to  think  that  a  man  such  as  he  believed  you 
were  so  fine  a  person,  and  during  the  coming 
winter  she  would  try  to  be  like  the  fine  person 
he  believed  her  to  be,  but  which,  she  assured 
him,  she  was  not. 

Then  he  told  her  again  she  was  the  most  won 
derful  being  in  the  world,  to  which  she  said: 
"Oh,  indeed  no!"  and  then,  as  though  he  were 
giving  her  a  cue,  he  said:  "Good-by !"  But  she 
did  not  take  up  his  cue,  and  they  shook  hands. 
He  waited,  hardly  daring  to  breathe. 

"Surely,  now  that  the  parting  has  come,"  he 
assured  himself,  "she  will  make  some  sign,  she 
will  give  me  a  word,  a  look  that  will  write 
'total'  under  the  hours  we  have  spent  together, 
that  will  help  to  carry  me  through  the  long 


winter." 


But  he  held  her  hand  so  long  and  looked  at 
her  so  hungrily  that  he  really  forced  her  to  say: 
"Don't  miss  your  train,"  which  kind  considera 
tion  for  his  comfort  did  not  delight  him  as  it 

'73 


THE  SAILORMAN 

should.     Nor,  indeed,  later  did  she  herself  recall 
the  remark  with  satisfaction. 

With  Latimer  out  of  the  way  the  other  two 
hundred  and  forty-nine  suitors  attacked  with 
renewed  hope.  Among  other  advantages  they 
had  over  Latimer  was  that  they  were  on  the 
ground.  They  saw  Helen  daily,  at  dinners, 
dances,  at  the  country  clubs,  in  her  own  draw 
ing-room.  Like  any  sailor  from  the  Charles- 
town  Navy  Yard  and  his  sweetheart,  they 
could  walk  beside  her  in  the  park  and  throw 
peanuts  to  the  pigeons,  and  scratch  dates  and 
initials  on  the  green  benches;  they  could  walk 
with  her  up  one  side  of  Commonwealth  Ave 
nue  and  down  the  south  bank  of  the  Charles, 
when  the  sun  was  gilding  the  dome  of  the  State 
House,  when  the  bridges  were  beginning  to  deck 
themselves  with  necklaces  of  lights.  They  had 
known  her  since  they  wore  knickerbockers;  and 
they  shared  many  interests  and  friends  in 
common;  they  talked  the  same  language.  Lati 
mer  could  talk  to  her  only  in  letters,  for  with 
her  he  shared  no  friends  or  interests,  and  he 
was  forced  to  choose  between  telling  her  of  his 
lawsuits  and  his  efforts  in  politics  or  of  his  love. 
To  write  to  her  of  his  affairs  seemed  wasteful 
and  impertinent,  and  of  his  love  for  her,  after 
she  had  received  what  he  told  of  it  in  silence, 
he  was  too  proud  to  speak.  So  he  wrote  but 

174 


THE  SAILORMAN 

seldom,  and  then  only  to  say:  "You  know  what 
I  send  you."  Had  he  known  it,  his  best  letters 
were  those  he  did  not  send.  When  in  the 
morning  mail  Helen  found  his  familiar  hand 
writing,  that  seemed  to  stand  out  like  the  face 
of  a  friend  in  a  crowd,  she  would  pounce  upon 
the  letter,  read  it,  and,  assured  of  his  love, 
would  go  on  her  way  rejoicing.  But  when  in 
the  morning  there  was  no  letter,  she  wondered 
why,  and  all  day  she  wondered  why.  And  the 
next  morning  when  again  she  was  disappointed, 
her  thoughts  of  Latimer  and  her  doubts  and 
speculations  concerning  him  shut  out  every 
other  interest.  He  became  a  perplexing,  in 
sistent  problem.  He  was  never  out  of  her 
mind.  And  then  he  would  spoil  it  all  by  writing 
her  that  he  loved  her  and  that  of  all  the  women 
in  the  world  she  was  the  only  one.  And,  re 
assured  upon  that  point,  Helen  happily  and 
promptly  would  forget  all  about  him. 

But  when  she  remembered  him,  although 
months  had  passed  since  she  had  seen  him,  she 
remembered  him  much  more  distinctly,  much 
more  gratefully,  than  that  one  of  the  two  hun 
dred  and  fifty  with  whom  she  had  walked  that 
same  afternoon.  Latimer  could  not  know  it, 
but  of  that  anxious  multitude  he  was  first,  and 
there  was  no  second.  At  least  Helen  hoped, 
when  she  was  ready  to  marry,  she  would  love 

175 


THE  SAILORMAN 

Latimer  enough  to  want  to  marry  him.  But 
as  yet  she  assured  herself  she  did  not  want  to 
marry  any  one.  As  she  was,  life  was  very 
satisfactory.  Everybody  loved  her,  everybody 
invited  her  to  be  of  his  party,  or  invited  himself 
to  join  hers,  and  the  object  of  each  seemed  to  be 
to  see  that  she  enjoyed  every  hour  of  every  day. 
Her  nature  was  such  that  to  make  her  happy 
was  not  difficult.  Some  of  her  devotees  could 
do  it  by  giving  her  a  dance  and  letting  her 
invite  half  of  Boston,  and  her  kid  brother 
could  do  it  by  taking  her  to  Cambridge  to 
watch  the  team  at  practice. 

She  thought  she  was  happy  because  she  was 
free.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  happy  be 
cause  she  loved  some  one  and  that  particular 
some  one  loved  her.  Her  being  "free"  was  only 
her  mistaken  way  of  putting  it.  Had  she 
thought  she  had  lost  Latimer  and  his  love,  she 
would  have  discovered  that,  so  far  from  being 
free,  she  was  bound  hand  and  foot  and  heart 
and  soul. 

But  she  did  not  know  that,  and  Latimer  did 
not  know  that. 

Meanwhile,  from  the  branch  of  the  tree  in  the 
sheltered,  secret  hiding-place  that  overlooked 
the  ocean,  the  sailorman  kept  watch.  The  sun 
had  blistered  him,  the  storms  had  buffeted  him, 
the  snow  had  frozen  upon  his  shoulders.  But 


THE  SAILORMAN 

his  loyalty  never  relaxed.  He  spun  to  the 
north,  he  spun  to  the  south,  and  so  rapidly  did 
he  scan  the  surrounding  landscape  that  no  one 
could  hope  to  creep  upon  him  unawares.  Nor, 
indeed,  did  any  one  attempt  to  do  so.  Once  a 
fox  stole  into  the  secret  hiding-place,  but  the 
sailorman  flapped  his  oars  and  frightened  him 
away.  He  was  always  triumphant.  To  birds, 
to  squirrels,  to  trespassing  rabbits  he  was  a 
thing  of  terror.  Once,  when  the  air  was  still, 
an  impertinent  crow  perched  on  the  very  limb 
on  which  he  stood,  and  with  scornful,  disapprov 
ing  eyes  surveyed  his  white  trousers,  his  blue 
reefer,  his  red  cheeks.  But  when  the  wind 
suddenly  drove  past  them  the  sailorman  sprang 
into  action  and  the  crow  screamed  in  alarm  and 
darted  away.  So,  alone  and  with  no  one  to 
come  to  his  relief,  the  sailorman  stood  his  watch. 
About  him  the  branches  bent  with  the  snow, 
the  icicles  froze  him  into  immobility,  and  in 
the  tree-tops  strange  groanings  filled  him  with 
alarms.  But  undaunted,  month  after  month, 
alert  and  smiling,  he  waited  the  return  of  the 
beautiful  lady  and  of  the  tall  young  man  who 
had  devoured  her  with  such  beseeching,  unhappy 
eyes. 

Latimer  found  that  to  love  a  woman  like 
Helen  Page  as  he  loved  her  was  the  best  thing 
that  could  come  into  his  life.  But  to  sit  down 

177 


THE  SAILORMAN 

and  lament  over  the  fact  that  she  did  not  love 
him  did  not,  to  use  his  favorite  expression, 
"tend  toward  efficiency."  He  removed  from 
his  sight  the  three  pictures  of  her  he  had  cut 
from  illustrated  papers,  and  ceased  to  write 
to  her. 

In  his  last  letter  he  said:  "I  have  told  you 
how  it  is,  and  that  is  how  it  is  always  going  to 
be.  There  never  has  been,  there  never  can  be 
any  one  but  you.  But  my  love  is  too  precious, 
too  sacred  to  be  brought  out  every  week  in  a 
letter  and  dangled  before  your  eyes  like  an 
advertisement  of  a  motor-car.  It  is  too  wonder 
ful  a  thing  to  be  cheapened,  to  be  subjected  to 
slights  and  silence.  If  ever  you  should  want 
it,  it  is  yours.  It  is  here  waiting.  But  you 
must  tell  me  so.  I  have  done  everything  a 
man  can  do  to  make  you  understand.  But  you 
do  not  want  me  or  my  love.  And  my  love  says 
to  me:  ' Don't  send  me  there  again  to  have  the 
door  shut  in  my  face.  Keep  me  with  you  to 
be  your  inspiration,  to  help  you  to  live  worthily/ 
And  so  it  shall  be." 

When  Helen  read  that  letter  she  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  She  did  not  know  how  to  answer 
it.  Her  first  impression  was  that  suddenly  she 
had  grown  very  old,  and  that  some  one  had 
turned  off  the  sun,  and  that  in  consequence  the 
world  had  naturally  grown  cold  and  dark. 


THE  SAILORMAN 

She  could  not  see  why  the  two  hundred  and 
forty-nine  expected  her  to  keep  on  doing  exactly 
the  same  things  she  had  been  doing  with  delight 
for  six  months,  and  indeed  for  the  last  six  years. 
Why  could  they  not  see  that  no  longer  was 
there  any  pleasure  in  them?  She  would  have 
written  and  told  Latimer  that  she  found  she 
loved  him  very  dearly  if  in  her  mind  there  had 
not  arisen  a  fearful  doubt.  Suppose  his  letter 
was  not  quite  honest?  He  said  that  he  would 
always  love  her,  but  how  could  she  now  know 
tha"?  Why  might  not  this  letter  be  only  his 
way  of  withdrawing  from  a  position  which  he 
wished  to  abandon,  from  which,  perhaps,  he 
was  even  glad  to  escape?  Were  this  true,  and 
she  wrote  and  said  all  those  things  that  were  in 
her  heart,  that  now  she  knew  were  true,  might 
she  not  hold  him  to  her  against  his  will?  The 
love  that  once  he  had  for  her  might  no  longer 
exist,  and  if,  in  her  turn,  she  told  him  she  loved 
him  and  had  always  loved  him,  might  he  not  in 
some  mistaken  spirit  of  chivalry  feel  it  was  his 
duty  to  pretend  to  care?  Her  cheeks  burned  at 
the  thought.  It  was  intolerable.  She  could  not 
write  that  letter.  And  as  day  succeeded  day,  to 
do  so  became  more  difficult.  And  so  she  never 
wrote  and  was  very  unhappy.  And  Latimer 
was  very  unhappy.  But  he  had  his  work,  and 
Helen  had  none,  and  for  her  life  became  a  game 

179 


THE  SAILORMAN 

of  putting  little  things  together,  like  a  picture 
puzzle,  an  hour  here  and  an  hour  there,  to  make 
up  each  day.  It  was  a  dreary  game. 

From  time  to  time  she  heard  of  him  through 
the  newspapers.  For,  in  his  own  State,  he  was 
an  "Insurgent"  making  a  fight,  the  outcome  of 
which  was  expected  to  show  what  might  follow 
throughout  the  entire  West.  When  he  won  his 
fight  much  more  was  written  about  him,  and  he 
became  a  national  figure.  In  his  own  State  the 
people  hailed  him  as  the  next  governor,  prom 
ised  him  a  seat  in  the  Senate.  To  Helen  this 
seemed  to  take  him  further  out  of  her  life.  She 
wondered  if  now  she  held  a  place  even  in  his 
thoughts. 

At  Fair  Harbor  the  two  hundred  and  forty- 
nine  used  to  joke  with  her  about  her  politician. 
Then  they  considered  Latimer  of  importance 
only  because  Helen  liked  him.  Now  they  dis 
cussed  him  impersonally  and  over  her  head,  as 
though  she  were  not  present,  as  a  power,  an 
influence,  as  the  leader  and  exponent  of  a  new 
idea.  They  seemed  to  think  she  no  longer  could 
pretend  to  any  peculiar  claim  upon  him,  that 
now  he  belonged  to  all  of  them. 

Older  men  would  say  to  her:  "I  hear  you 
know  Latimer?  What  sort  of  a  man  is  he?" 

Helen  would  not  know  what  to  tell  them, 
She  could  not  say  he  was  a  man  who  sat  with 

1 80 


THE  SAILORMAN 

his  back  to  a  pine-tree,  reading  from  a  book  of 
verse,  or  halting  to  devour  her  with  humble, 
entreating  eyes. 

She  went  South  for  the  winter,  the  doctors 
deciding  she  was  run  down  and  needed  the 
change.  And  with  an  unhappy  laugh  at  her 
own  expense  she  agreed  in  their  diagnosis.  She 
was  indifferent  as  to  where  they  sent  her,  for 
she  knew  wherever  she  went  she  must  still 
force  herself  to  go  on  putting  one  hour  on  top 
of  another,  until  she  had  built  up  the  inexorable 
and  necessary  twenty-four. 

When  she  returned  winter  was  departing,  but 
reluctantly,  and  returning  unexpectedly  to  cover 
the  world  with  snow,  to  eclipse  the  thin  spring 
sunshine  with  cheerless  clouds.  Helen  took  her 
self  seriously  to  task.  She  assured  herself  it 
was  weak-minded  to  rebel.  The  summer  was 
coming  and  Fair  Harbor  with  all  its  old  de 
lights  was  before  her.  She  compelled  herself  to 
take  heart,  to  accept  the  fact  that,  after  all, 
the  world  is  a  pretty  good  place,  and  that  to 
think  only  of  the  past,  to  live  only  on  memories 
and  regrets,  was  not  only  cowardly  and  selfish, 
but,  as  Latimer  had  already  decided,  did  not 
tend  toward  efficiency. 

Among  the  other  rules  of  conduct  that  she 
imposed  upon  herself  was  not  to  think  of  Lat 
imer.  At  least,  not  during  the  waking  hours. 

181 


THE  SAILORMAN 

Should  she,  as  it  sometimes  happened,  dream 
of  him — should  she  imagine  they  were  again 
seated  among  the  pines,  riding  across  the  downs, 
or  racing  at  fifty  miles  an  hour  through  coun 
try  roads,  with  the  stone  fences  flying  past, 
with  the  wind  and  the  sun  in  their  eyes,  and 
in  their  hearts  happiness  and  content — that 
would  not  be  breaking  her  rule.  If  she  dreamed 
of  him,  she  could  not  be  held  responsible.  She 
could  only  be  grateful. 

And  then,  just  as  she  had  banished  him  en 
tirely  from  her  mind,  he  came  East.  Not  as 
once  he  had  planned  to  come,  only  to  see  her, 
but  with  a  blare  of  trumpets,  at  the  command 
of  many  citizens,  as  the  guest  of  three  cities. 
He  was  to  speak  at  public  meetings,  to  confer 
with  party  leaders,  to  carry  the  war  into  the 
enemy's  country.  He  was  due  to  speak  in 
Boston  at  Faneuil  Hall  on  the  first  of  May,  and 
that  same  night  to  leave  for  the  West,  and 
three  days  before  his  coming  Helen  fled  from 
the  city.  He  had  spoken  his  message  to  Phila 
delphia,  he  had  spoken  to  New  York,  and  for  a 
week  the  papers  had  spoken  only  of  him.  And 
for  that  week,  from  the  sight  of  his  printed 
name,  from  sketches  of  him  exhorting  cheering 
mobs,  from  snap-shots  of  him  on  rear  platforms 
leaning  forward  to  grasp  eager  hands,  Helen 
had  shut  her  eyes.  And  that  during  the  time 

182 


THE  SAILORMAN 

he  was  actually  in  Boston  she  might  spare  her 
self  further  and  more  direct  attacks  upon  her 
feelings  she  escaped  to  Fair  Harbor,  there  to 
remain  until,  on  the  first  of  May  at  midnight, 
he  again  would  pass  out  of  her  life,  maybe  for 
ever.  No  one  saw  in  her  going  any  significance. 
Spring  had  come,  and  in  preparation  for  the 
summer  season  the  house  at  Fair  Harbor  must 
be  opened  and  set  in  order,  and  the  presence 
there  of  some  one  of  the  Page  family  was  easily 
explained. 

She  made  the  three  hours'  run  to  Fair  Harbor 
in  her  car,  driving  it  herself,  and  as  the  familiar 
landfalls  fell  into  place,  she  doubted  if  it 
would  not  have  been  wiser  had  she  stayed 
away.  For  she  found  that  the  memories  of 
more  than  twenty  summers  at  Fair  Harbor  had 
been  wiped  out  by  those  of  one  summer,  by 
those  of  one  man.  The  natives  greeted  her 
joyously:  the  boatmen,  the  fishermen,  her  own 
grooms  and  gardeners,  the  village  postmaster, 
the  oldest  inhabitant.  They  welcomed  her  as 
though  they  were  her  vassals  and  she  their 
queen.  But  it  was  the  one  man  she  had  exiled 
from  Fair  Harbor  who  at  every  turn  wrung  her 
heart  and  caused  her  throat  to  tighten.  She 
passed  the  cottage  where  he  had  lodged,  and 
hundreds  of  years  seemed  to  have  gone  since 
she  used  to  wait  for  him  in  the  street,  blowing 

183 


THE  SAILORMAN 

noisily  on  her  automobile  horn,  calling  derisively 
to  his  open  windows.  Wherever  she  turned 
Fair  Harbor  spoke  of  him.  The  golf-links;  the 
bathing  beach;  the  ugly  corner  in  the  main 
street  where  he  always  reminded  her  that  it 
was  better  to  go  slow  for  ten  seconds  than  to 
remain  a  long  time  dead;  the  old  house  on  the 
stone  wrharf  where  the  schooners  made  fast, 
which  he  intended  to  borrow  for  his  honey 
moon;  the  wooden  trough  where  they  always 
drew  rein  to  water  the  ponies;  the  pond  into 
which  he  had  waded  to  bring  her  lilies. 

On  the  second  day  of  her  stay  she  found  she 
was  passing  these  places  purposely,  that  to  do 
so  she  was  going  out  of  her  way.  They  no 
longer  distressed  her,  but  gave  her  a  strange 
comfort.  They  were  old  friends,  who  had 
known  her  in  the  days  when  she  was  rich  in 
happiness. 

But  the  secret  hiding-place — their  very  own 
hiding-place,  the  opening  among  the  pines  that 
overhung  the  jumble  of  rocks  and  the  sea — she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  visit.  And  then,  on 
the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  when  she  was 
driving  alone  toward  the  lighthouse,  her  pony, 
of  his  own  accord,  from  force  of  habit,  turned 
smartly  into  the  wood  road.  And  again  from 
force  of  habit,  before  he  reached  the  spot  that 
overlooked  the  sea,  he  came  to  a  full  stop. 

184 


THE  SAILORMAN 

There  was  no  need  to  make  him  fast.  For 
hours,  stretching  over  many  summer  days,  he 
had  stood  under  those  same  branches  patiently 
waiting. 

On  foot,  her  heart  beating  tremulously,  step 
ping  reverently,  as  one  enters  the  aisle  of  some 
dim  cathedral,  Helen  advanced  into  the  sacred 
circle.  And  then  she  stood  quite  still.  What 
she  had  expected  to  find  there  she  could  not 
have  told,  but  it  was  gone.  The  place  was  un 
known  to  her.  She  saw  an  opening  among 
gloomy  pines,  empty,  silent,  unreal.  No  haunt 
ed  house,  no  barren  moor,  no  neglected  grave 
yard  ever  spoke  more  poignantly,  more  mourn 
fully,  with  such  utter  hopelessness.  There  was 
no  sign  of  his  or  of  her  former  presence.  Across 
the  open  space  something  had  passed  its  hand, 
and  it  had  changed.  What  had  been  a  trysting- 
place,  a  bower,  a  nest,  had  become  a  tomb.  A 
tomb,  she  felt,  for  something  that  once  had 
been  brave,  fine,  and  beautiful,  but  which  now 
was  dead.  She  had  but  one  desire,  to  escape 
from  the  place,  to  put  it  away  from  her  for 
ever,  to  remember  it,  not  as  she  now  found  it, 
but  as  first  she  had  remembered  it,  and  as 
now  she  must  always  remember  it.  She  turned 
softly  on  tiptoe  as  one  who  has  intruded  on  a 
shrine. 

But  before  she  could  escape  there  came  from 


THE  SAILORMAN 

the  sea  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  that  caught  her 
by  the  skirts  and  drew  her  back,  that  set  the 
branches  tossing  and  swept  the  dead  leaves 
racing  about  her  ankles.  And  at  the  same  in 
stant  from  just  above  her  head  there  beat  upon 
the  air  a  violent,  joyous  tattoo — a  sound  that 
was  neither  of  the  sea  nor  of  the  woods,  a  creak 
ing,  swiftly  repeated  sound,  like  the  flutter  of 
caged  wings. 

Helen  turned  in  alarm  and  raised  her  eyes — 
and  beheld  the  sailorman. 

Tossing  his  arms  in  a  delirious  welcome, 
waltzing  in  a  frenzy  of  joy,  calling  her  back  to 
him  with  wild  beckonings,  she  saw  him  smiling 
down  at  her  with  the  same  radiant,  beseeching, 
worshipping  smile.  In  Helen's  ears  Latimer's 
commands  to  the  sailorman  rang  as  clearly  as 
though  Latimer  stood  before  her  and  had  just 
spoken.  Only  now  they  were  no  longer  a  jest; 
they  were  a  vow,  a  promise,  an  oath  of  alle 
giance  that  brought  to  her  peace,  and  pride, 
and  happiness. 

"So  long  as  I  love  this  beautiful  lady,"  had 
been  his  foolish  words,  "you  will  guard  this 
place.  It  is  a  life  sentence !" 

With  one  hand  Helen  Page  dragged  down 
the  branch  on  which  the  sailorman  stood,  with 
the  other  she  snatched  him  from  his  post  of 
duty.  With  a  joyous  laugh  that  was  a  sob,  she 

1 86 


THE  SAILORMAN 

clutched  the  sailorman  in  both  her  hands  and 
kissed  the  beseeching,  worshipping  smile. 

An  hour  later  her  car,  on  its  way  to  Boston, 
passed  through  Fair  Harbor  at  a  rate  of  speed 
that  caused  her  chauffeur  to  pray  between  his 
chattering  teeth  that  the  first  policeman  would 
save  their  lives  by  landing  them  in  jail. 

At  the  wheel,  her  shoulders  thrown  forward, 
her  eyes  searching  the  dark  places  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  leaping  head-lights  Helen  Page 
raced  against  time,  against  the  minions  of  the 
law,  against  sudden  death,  to  beat  the  mid 
night  train  out  of  Boston,  to  assure  the  man 
she  loved  of  the  one  thing  that  could  make  his 
life  worth  living. 

And  close  against  her  heart,  buttoned  tight 
beneath  her  great-coat,  the  sailorman  smiled  in 
the  darkness,  his  long  watch  over,  his  soul  at 
peace,  his  duty  well  performed. 


THE  MIND  READER 

WHEN  Philip  Endicott  was  at  Harvard,  he 
wrote  stories  of  undergraduate  life  suggested 
by  things  that  had  happened  to  himself  and 
to  men  he  knew.  Under  the  title  of  "Tales  of 
the  Yard"  they  were  collected  in  book  form, 
and  sold  surprisingly  well.  After  he  was  grad 
uated  and  became  a  reporter  on  the  New  York 
Republic,  he  wrote  more  stories,  in  each  of  which 
a  reporter  was  the  hero,  and  in  which  his  fail 
ure  or  success  in  gathering  news  supplied  the 
plot.  These  appeared  first  in  the  magazines, 
and  later  in  a  book  under  the  title  of  "Tales 
of  the  Streets."  They  also  were  well  received. 

Then  came  to  him  the  literary  editor  of  the 
Republic,  and  said:  "There  are  two  kinds  of 
men  wrho  succeed  in  writing  fiction — men  of 
genius  and  reporters.  A  reporter  can  describe 
a  thing  he  has  seen  in  such  a  way  that  he 
can  make  the  reader  see  it,  too.  A  man  of 
genius  can  describe  something  he  has  never 
seen,  or  any  one  else  for  that  matter,  in  such  a 
way  that  the  reader  will  exclaim:  'I  have  never 
committed  a  murder;  but  if  I  had,  that's  just 
the  way  I'd  feel  about  it.'  For  instance,  Kip- 

188 


THE  MIND  READER 

ling  te!Is  us  how  a  Greek  pirate,  chained  to  the 
oar  of  a  trireme,  suffers;  how  a  mother  rejoices 
when  her  baby  crawls  across  her  breast.  Kip 
ling  has  never  been  a  mother  or  a  pirate,  but 
he  convinces  you  he  knows  how  each  of  them 
feels.  He  can  do  that  because  he  is  a  genius; 
you  cannot  do  it  because  you  are  not.  At  col 
lege  you  wrote  only  of  what  you  saw  at  college; 
and  now  that  you  are  in  the  newspaper  business 
all  your  tales  are  only  of  newspaper  work.  You 
merely  report  what  you  see.  So,  if  you  are 
doomed  to  write  only  of  what  you  see,  then 
the  best  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  see  as  many 
things  as  possible.  You  must  see  all  kinds  of 
life.  You  must  progress.  You  must  leave 
New  York,  and  you  had  better  go  to  London." 

"But  on  the  Republic"  Endicott  pointed  out, 
"  I  get  a  salary.  And  in  London  I  should  have 
to  sweep  a  crossing." 

"Then,"  said  the  literary  editor,  "y°u  could 
write  a  story  about  a  man  who  swept  a  cross 
ing." 

It  was  not  alone  the  literary  editor's  words 
of  wisdom  that  had  driven  Philip  to  London. 
Helen  Carey  was  in  London,  visiting  the  daugh 
ter  of  the  American  Ambassador;  and,  though 
Philip  had  known  her  only  one  winter,  he  loved 
her  dearly.  The  great  trouble  was  that  he  had 
no  money,  and  that  she  possessed  so  much  of 

189 


THE  MIND   READER 

it  that,  unless  he  could  show  some  unusual 
quality  of  mind  or  character,  his  asking  her  to 
marry  him,  from  his  own  point  of  view  at  least, 
was  quite  impossible.  Of  course,  he  knew  that 
no  one  could  love  her  as  he  did,  that  no  one  so 
truly  wished  for  her  happiness,  or  would  try 
so  devotedly  to  make  her  happy.  But  to  him 
it  did  not  seem  possible  that  a  girl  could  be 
happy  with  a  man  who  was  not  able  to  pay  for 
her  home,  or  her  clothes,  or  her  food,  who 
would  have  to  borrow  her  purse  if  he  wanted 
a  new  pair  of  gloves  or  a  hair-cut.  For  Philip 
Endicott,  while  rich  in  birth  and  education  and 
charm  of  manner,  had  no  money  at  all.  When, 
in  May,  he  came  from  New  York  to  lay  siege 
to  London  and  to  the  heart  of  Helen  Carey, 
he  had  with  him,  all  told,  fifteen  hundred  dol 
lars.  That  was  all  he  possessed  in  the  world; 
and  unless  the  magazines  bought  his  stories 
there  was  no  prospect  of  his  getting  any  more. 
Friends  who  knew  London  told  him  that,  if 
if  you  knew  London  well,  it  was  easy  to  live 
comfortably  there  and  to  go  about  and  even  to 
entertain  modestly  on  three  sovereigns  a  day. 
So,  at  that  rate,  Philip  calculated  he  could  stay 
three  months.  But  he  found  that  to  know 
London  well  enough  to  be  able  to  live  there  on 
three  sovereigns  a  day  you  had  first  to  spend  so 
many  five-pound  notes  in  getting  acquainted 

190 


THE  MIND  READER 

with  London  that  there  were  no  sovereigns  left* 
At  the  end  of  one  month  he  had  just  enough 
money  to  buy  him  a  second-class  passage  back 
to  New  York,  and  he  was  as  far  from  Helen  as 
ever. 

Often  he  had  read  in  stories  and  novels  of 
men  who  were  too  poor  to  marry.  And  he  had 
laughed  at  the  idea.  He  had  always  said  that 
when  two  people  truly  love  each  other  it  does 
not  matter  whether  they  have  money  or  not., 
But  when  in  London,  with  only  a  five-pound 
note,  and  face  to  face  with  the  actual  proposi 
tion  of  asking  Helen  Carey  not  only  to  marry 
him  but  to  support  him,  he  felt  that  money 
counted  for  more  than  he  had  supposed.  He 
found  money  was  many  different  things — it  was 
self-respect,  and  proper  pride,  and  private 
honor,  and  independence.  And,  lacking  these 
things,  he  felt  he  could  ask  no  girl  to  marry 
him,  certainly  not  one  for  whom  he  cared  as' 
he  cared  for  Helen  Carey.  Besides,  while  he 
knew  how  he  loved  her,  he  had  no  knowledge 
whatsoever  that  she  loved  him.  She  always 
seemed  extremely  glad  to  see  him;  but  that 
might  be  explained  in  different  ways.  It  might 
be  that  what  was  in  her  heart  for  him  was 
really  a  sort  of  "old  home  week"  feeling;  that 
to  her  it  was  a  relief  to  see  any  one  who  spoke 
her  own  language,  who  did  not  need  to  have  it 

191 


THE  MIND   READER 

explained  when  she  was  jesting,  and  who  did 
not  think  when  she  was  speaking  in  perfectly 
satisfactory  phrases  that  she  must  be  talking 
slang. 

The  Ambassador  and  his  wife  had  been  very 
kind  to  Endicott,  and,  as  a  friend  of  Helen's, 
had  asked  him  often  to  dinner  and  had  sent 
him  cards  for  dances  at  which  Helen  was  to 
be  one  of  the  belles  and  beauties.  And  Helen 
herself  had  been  most  kind,  and  had  taken 
early  morning  walks  with  him  in  Hyde  Park 
and  through  the  National  Galleries;  and  they 
had  fed  buns  to  the  bears  in  the  Zoo,  and  in 
doing  so  had  laughed  heartily.  They  thought 
it  was  because  the  bears  were  so  ridiculous  that 
they  laughed.  Later  they  appreciated  that  the 
reason  they  were  happy  was  because  they  were 
together.  Had  the  bear  pit  been  empty,  they 
still  would  have  laughed. 

On  the  evening  of  the  thirty-first  of  May, 
Endicott  had  gone  to  bed  with  his  ticket  pur 
chased  for  America  and  his  last  five-pound  note 
to  last  him  until  the  boat  sailed.  He  was  a 
miserable  young  man.  He  knew  now  that  he 
loved  Helen  Carey  in  such  a  way  that  to  put 
the  ocean  between  them  was  liable  to  unseat 
his  courage  and  his  self-control.  In  London  he 
could,  each  night,  walk  through  Carlton  House 
Terrace  and,  leaning  against  the  iron  rails  of 

192 


THE  MIND   READER 

the  Carlton  Club,  gaze  up  at  her  window.  But, 
once  on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean,  that  tender 
exercise  must  be  abandoned.  He  must  even 
consider  her  pursued  by  most  attractive  guards 
men,  diplomats,  and  belted  earls.  He  knew 
they  could  not  love  her  as  he  did;  he  knew  they 
could  not  love  her  for  the  reasons  he  loved  her, 
because  the  fine  and  beautiful  things  in  her 
that  he  saw  and  worshipped  they  did  not  seek, 
and  so  did  not  find.  And  yet,  for  lack  of  a  few 
thousand  dollars,  he  must  remain  silent,  must 
put  from  him  the  best  that  ever  came  into  his 
life,  must  waste  the  wonderful  devotion  he 
longed  to  give,  must  starve  the  love  that  he 
could  never  summon  for  any  other  woman. 

On  the  thirty-first  of  May  he  went  to  sleep 
utterly  and  completely  miserable.  On  the  first 
of  June  he  woke  hopeless  and  unrefreshed. 

And  then  the  miracle  came. 

Prichard,  the  ex-butler  who  valeted  all  the 
young  gentlemen  in  the  house  where  Philip  had 
taken  chambers,  brought  him  his  breakfast. 
As  he  placed  the  eggs  and  muffins  on  the  table, 
to  Philip  it  seemed  as  though  Prichard  had 
said:  "I  am  sorry  he  is  leaving  us.  The  next 
gentleman  who  takes  these  rooms  may  not  be 
so  open-handed.  He  never  locked  up  his  cigars 
or  his  whiskey.  I  wish  he'd  give  me  his  old  dress- 
coat.  It  fits  me,  except  across  the  shoulders." 

193 


THE  MIND  READER 

Philip  stared  hard  at  Prichard;  but  the  lips 
of  the  valet  had  not  moved.  In  surprise  and 
bewilderment,  Philip  demanded: 

"How  do  you  know  it  fits?  Have  you  tried 
it  on?" 

"I  wouldn't  take  such  a  liberty,"  protested 
Prichard.  "Not  with  any  of  our  gentlemen's 
clothes." 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  talking  about 
clothes,"  demanded  Philip.  "You  didn't  say 
anything  about  clothes,  did  you?" 

"No,  sir,  I  did  not;  but  you  asked  me,  sir, 
and  I » 

"Were  you  thinking  of  clothes?" 

"Well,  sir,  you  might  say,  in  a  way,  that  I 
was,"  answered  the  valet.  "Seeing  as  you're 
leaving,  sir,  and  they're  not  over-new,  I 
thought " 

"It's  mental  telepathy,"  said  Philip. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  exclaimed  Prichard. 

"You  needn't  wait,"  said  Philip. 

The  coincidence  puzzled  him;  but  by  the 
time  he  had  read  the  morning  papers  he  had 
forgotten  about  it,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had 
emerged  into  the  street  that  it  was  forcibly 
recalled.  The  street  was  crowded  with  people; 
and  as  Philip  stepped  in  among  them,  it  was  as 
though  every  one  at  whom  he  looked  began  to 
talk  aloud.  Their  lips  did  not  move,  nor  did 

194 


THE  MIND  READER 

any  sound  issue  from  between  them;  but,  with 
out  ceasing,  broken  phrases  of  thoughts  came 
to  him  as  clearly  as  when,  in  passing  in  a  crowd, 
snatches  of  talk  are  carried  to  the  ears.  One 
man  thought  of  his  debts;  another  of  the 
weather,  and  of  what  disaster  it  might  bring 
to  his  silk  hat;  another  planned  his  luncheon; 
another  was  rejoicing  over  a  telegram  he  had 
but  that  moment  received.  To  himself  he  kept 
repeating  the  words  of  the  telegram—  "No  need 
to  come,  out  of  danger."  To  Philip  the  mes 
sage  came  as  clearly  as  though  he  were  reading 
it  from  the  folded  slip  of  paper  that  the  stranger 
clutched  in  his  hand. 

Confused  and  somewhat  frightened,  and  in 
order  that  undisturbed  he  might  consider  what 
had  befallen  him,  Philip  sought  refuge  from 
the  crowded  street  in  the  hallway  of  a  building. 
His  first  thought  was  that  for  some  unaccount 
able  cause  his  brain  for  the  moment  was  play 
ing  tricks  with  him,  and  he  was  inventing  the 
phrases  he  seemed  to  hear,  that  he  was  attrib 
uting  thoughts  to  others  of  which  they  were 
entirely  innocent.  But,  whatever  it  was  that 
had  befallen  him,  he  knew  it  was  imperative 
that  he  should  at  once  get  at  the  meaning  of  it. 

The  hallway  in  which  he  stood  opened  from 
Bond  Street  up  a  flight  of  stairs  to  the  studio 
of  a  fashionable  photographer,  and  directly  in 

195 


THE  MIND   READER 

front  of  the  hallway  a  young  woman  of  charm 
ing  appearance  had  halted.  Her  glance  was 
troubled,  her  manner  ill  at  ease.  To  herself  she 
kept  repeating:  "Did  I  tell  Hudson  to  be  here 
at  a  quarter  to  eleven,  or  a  quarter  past?  Will 
she  get  the  telephone  message  to  bring  the  ruff? 
Without  the  ruff  it  would  be  absurd  to  be 
photographed.  Without  her  ruff  Mary  Queen 
of  Scots  would  look  ridiculous!" 

Although  the  young  woman  had  spoken  not 
a  single  word,  although  indeed  she  was  biting 
impatiently  at  her  lower  lip,  Philip  had  distin 
guished  the  words  clearly.  Or,  if  he  had  not 
distinguished  them,  he  surely  was  going  mad. 
It  was  a  matter  to  be  at  once  determined,  and 
the  young  woman  should  determine  it.  He 
advanced  boldly  to  her,  and  raised  his  hat. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "but  I  believe  you 
are  waiting  for  your  maid  Hudson?" 

As  though  fearing  an  impertinence,  the  girl 
regarded  him  in  silence. 

"I  only  wish  to  make  sure,"  continued  Philip, 
"that  you  are  she  for  whom  I  have  a  message. 
You  have  an  appointment,  I  believe,  to  be 
photographed  in  fancy  dress  as  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots?" 

"Well?"  assented  the  girl. 

"And  you  telephoned  Hudson,"  he  continued, 
to  bring  you  your  muff." 

196 


<c 


THE  MIND   READER 

The  girl  exclaimed  with  vexation. 

"Oh!"  she  protested;  "I  knew  they'd  get  it 
wrong!  Not  muff,  ruff!  I  want  my  ruff." 

Philip  felt  a  cold  shiver  creep  down  his  spine. 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven!"  he  exclaimed  in 
horror;  "it's  true!" 

"What's  true?"  demanded  the  young  woman 
in  some  alarm. 

"That  I'm  a  mind  reader,"  declared  Philip. 
"  I've  read  your  mind !  I  can  read  everybody's 
mind.  I  know  just  what  you're  thinking  now. 
You're  thinking  I'm  mad!" 

The  actions  of  the  young  lady  showed  that 
again  he  was  correct.  With  a  gasp  of  terror 
she  fled  past  him  and  raced  up  the  stairs  to 
the  studio.  Philip  made  no  effort  to  follow  and 
to  explain.  What  was  there  to  explain?  How 
could  he  explain  that  which,  to  himself,  was 
unbelievable?  Besides,  the  girl  had  served  her 
purpose.  If  he  could  read  the  mind  of  one,  he 
could  read  the  minds  of  all.  By  some  unex- 
plainable  miracle,  to  his  ordinary  equipment  of 
senses  a  sixth  had  been  added.  As  easily  as, 
before  that  morning,  he  could  look  into  the  face 
of  a  fellow-mortal,  he  now  could  look  into  the 
workings  of  that  fellow-mortal's  mind.  The 
thought  was  appalling.  It  was  like  living  with 
one's  ear  to  a  key-hole.  In  his  dismay  his  first 
idea  was  to  seek  medical  advice — the  best  in 

197 


THE  MIND  READER 

London.  He  turned  instantly  in  the  direction 
of  Harley  Street.  There,  he  determined,  to  the 
most  skilled  alienist  in  town  he  would  explain 
his  strange  plight.  For  only  as  a  misfortune 
did  the  miracle  appear  to  him.  But  as  he  made 
his  way  through  the  streets  his  pace  slackened. 

Was  he  wise,  he  asked  himself,  in  allowing 
others  to  know  he  possessed  this  strange  power? 
Would  they  not  at  once  treat  him  as  a  mad 
man?  Might  they  not  place  him  under  ob 
servation,  or  even  deprive  him  of  his  liberty? 
At  the  thought  he  came  to  an  abrupt  halt. 
His  own  definition  of  the  miracle  as  a  "power" 
had  opened  a  new  line  of  speculation.  If  this 
strange  gift  (already  he  was  beginning  to  con 
sider  it  more  leniently)  were  concealed  from 
others,  could  he  not  honorably  put  it  to  some 
useful  purpose?  For,  among  the  blind,  the 
man  with  one  eye  is  a  god.  Was  not  he— 
among  all  other  men  the  only  one  able  to  read 
the  minds  of  all  other  men — a  god?  Turning 
into  Bruton  Street,  he  paced  its  quiet  length 
considering  the  possibilities  that  lay  within  him. 

It  was  apparent  that  the  gift  would  lead  to 
countless  embarrassments.  If  it  were  once 
known  that  he  possessed  it,  would  not  even  his 
friends  avoid  him?  For  how  could  any  one, 
knowing  his  most  secret  thought  was  at  the 
mercy  of  another,  be  happy  in  that  other's 

198 


THE  MIND   READER 

presence?  His  power  would  lead  to  his  social 
ostracism.  Indeed,  he  could  see  that  his  gift 
might  easily  become  a  curse.  He  decided  not 
to  act  hastily,  that  for  the  present  he  had  best 
give  no  hint  to  others  of  his  unique  power. 

As  the  idea  of  possessing  this  power  became 
more  familiar,  he  regarded  it  with  less  aversion. 
He  began  to  consider  to  what  advantage  he 
could  place  it.  He  could  see  that,  given  the 
right  time  and  the  right  man,  he  might  learn 
secrets  leading  to  far-reaching  results.  To  a 
statesman,  to  a  financier,  such  a  gift  as  he 
possessed  would  make  him  a  ruler  of  men. 
Philip  had  no  desire  to  be  a  ruler  of  men;  but 
he  asked  himself  how  could  he  bend  this  gift 
to  serve  his  own  wishes  ?  What  he  most  wished 
was  to  marry  Helen  Carey;  and,  to  that  end, 
to  possess  money.  So  he  must  meet  men  who 
possessed  money,  who  were  making  money. 
He  would  put  questions  to  them.  And  with 
words  they  would  give  evasive  answers;  but 
their  minds  would  tell  him  the  truth. 

The  ethics  of  this  procedure  greatly  disturbed 
him.  Certainly  it  was  no  better  than  reading 
other  people's  letters.  But,  he  argued,  the 
dishonor  in  knowledge  so  obtained  would  lie 
only  in  the  use  he  made  of  it.  If  he  used  it 
without  harm  to  him  from  whom  it  was  ob 
tained  and  with  benefit  to  others,  was  he  not 

199 


THE  MIND   READER 

justified  in  trading  on  his  superior  equipment? 
He  decided  that  each  case  must  be  considered 
separately  in  accordance  with  the  principle 
involved.  But,  principle  or  no  principle,  he 
was  determined  to  become  rich.  Did  not  the 
end  justify  the  means?  Certainly  an  all-wise 
Providence  had  not  brought  Helen  Carey  into 
his  life  only  to  take  her  away  from  him.  It 
could  not  be  so  cruel.  But,  in  selecting  them 
for  one  another,  the  all-wise  Providence  had 
overlooked  the  fact  that  she  was  rich  and  he 
was  poor.  For  that  oversight  Providence  ap 
parently  was  now  endeavoring  to  make  amends. 
In  what  certainly  was  a  fantastic  and  round 
about  manner  Providence  had  tardily  equipped 
him  with  a  gift  that  could  lead  to  great  wealth. 
And  who  was  he  to  fly  in  the  face  of  Providence? 
He  decided  to  set  about  building  up  a  fortune, 
and  building  it  in  a  hurry. 

From  Bruton  Street  he  had  emerged  upon 
Berkeley  Square;  and,  'as  Lady  Woodcote  had 
invited  him  to  meet  Helen  at  luncheon  at  the 
Ritz,  he  turned  in  that  direction.  He  was  too 
early  for  luncheon;  but  in  the  corridor  of  the 
Ritz  he  knew  he  would  find  persons  of  position 
and  fortune,  and  in  reading  their  minds  he 
might  pass  the  time  before  luncheon  with  enter 
tainment,  possibly  with  profit.  For,  while  pac 
ing  Bruton  Street  trying  to  discover  the  princi- 

200 


THE  MIND   READER 

pies  of  conduct  that  threatened  to  hamper  his 
new  power,  he  had  found  that  in  actual  opera 
tion  it  was  quite  simple.  He  learned  that  his 
mind,  in  relation  to  other  minds,  was  like  the 
receiver  of  a  wireless  station  with  an  unlimited 
field.  For,  while  the  wireless  could  receive 
messages  only  from  those  instruments  with 
which  it  was  attuned,  his  mind  was  in  key  with 
all  other  minds.  To  read  the  thoughts  of 
another,  he  had  only  to  concentrate  his  own 
upon  that  person;  and  to  shut  off  the  thoughts 
of  that  person,  he  had  only  to  turn  his  own 
thoughts  elsewhere.  But  also  he  discovered 
that  over  the  thoughts  of  those  outside  the 
range  of  his  physical  sight  he  had  no  control. 
When  he  asked  of  what  Helen  Carey  was  at 
that  moment  thinking,  there  was  no  result. 
But  when  he  asked,  "Of  what  is  that  policeman 
on  the  corner  thinking?"  he  was  surprised  to 
find  that  that  officer  of  the  law  was  formulating 
regulations  to  abolish  the  hobble  skirt  as  an 
impediment  to  traffic. 

As  Philip  turned  into  Berkeley  Square,  the 
accents  of  a  mind  in  great  distress  smote  upon 
his  new  and  sixth  sense.  And,  in  the  person  of 
a  young  gentleman  leaning  against  the  park 
railing,  he  discovered  the  source  from  which 
the  mental  sufferings  emanated.  The  young 
man  was  a  pink-cheeked,  yellow-haired  youth 

201 


THE  MIND   READER 

of  extremely  boyish  appearance,  and  dressed  as 
if  for  the  race-track.  But  at  the  moment  his 
pink  and  babyish  face  wore  an  expression  of 
complete  misery.  With  tear-filled  eyes  he  was 
gazing  at  a  house  of  yellow  stucco  on  the  oppo 
site  side  of  the  street.  And  his  thoughts  were 
these:  "She  is  the  best  that  ever  lived,  and  I 
am  the  most  ungrateful  of  fools.  How  happy 
were  we  in  the  house  of  yellow  stucco !  Only 
now,  when  she  has  closed  its  doors  to  me,  do  I 
know  how  happy !  If  she  would  give  me  an 
other  chance,  never  again  would  I  distress  or 
deceive  her." 

So  far  had  the  young  man  progressed  in  his 
thoughts  when  an  automobile  of  surprising 
smartness  swept  around  the  corner  and  drew 
up  in  front  of  the  house  of  yellow  stucco,  and 
from  it  descended  a  charming  young  person. 
She  was  of  the  Dresden-shepherdess  type,  with 
large  blue  eyes  of  haunting  beauty  and  inno 
cence. 

"My  wife!"  exclaimed  the  blond  youth  at 
the  railings.  And  instantly  he  dodged  behind 
a  horse  that,  while  still  attached  to  a  four- 
wheeler,  was  contentedly  eating  from  a  nose-bag. 

With  a  key  the  Dresden  shepherdess  opened 
the  door  to  the  yellow  house  and  disappeared. 

The  calling  of  the  reporter  trains  him  in 
audacity,  and  to  act  quickly.  He  shares  the 

202 


THE  MIND  READER 

troubles  of  so  many  people  that  to  the  troubles 
of  other  people  he  becomes  callous,  and  often 
will  rush  in  where  friends  of  the  family  fear  to 
tread.  Although  Philip  was  not  now  acting  as 
a  reporter,  he  acted  quickly.  Hardly  had  the 
door  closed  upon  the  young  lady  than  he  had 
mounted  the  steps  and  rung  the  visitor's  bell. 
As  he  did  so,  he  could  not  resist  casting  a 
triumphant  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  out 
lawed  husband.  And,  in  turn,  what  the  outcast 
husband,  peering  from  across  the  back  of  the 
cab  horse,  thought  of  Philip,  of  his  clothes,  of 
his  general  appearance,  and  of  the  manner  in 
which  he  would  delight  to  alter  all  of  them,  was 
quickly  communicated  to  the  American.  They 
were  thoughts  of  a  nature  so  violent  and  un 
complimentary  that  Philip  hastily  cut  off  all 
connection. 

As  Philip  did  not  know  the  name  of  the 
Dresden-china  doll,  it  was  fortunate  that  on 
opening  the  door,  the  butler  promptly  an 
nounced  : 

"Her  ladyship  is  not  receiving." 

"Her  ladyship  will,  I  think,  receive  me,"  said 
Philip  pleasantly,  "when  you  tell  her  I  come 
as  the  special  ambassador  of  his  lordship." 

From  a  tiny  reception-room  on  the  right  of 
the  entrance-hall  there  issued  a  feminine  ex 
clamation  of  surprise,  not  unmixed  with  joy; 

203 


THE  MIND  READER 

and  in  the  hall  the  noble  lady  instantly  ap 
peared. 

When  she  saw  herself  confronted  by  a 
stranger,  she  halted  in  embarrassment.  But  as, 
even  while  she  halted,  her  only  thought  had 
been,  "Oh!  if  he  will  only  ask  me  to  forgive 
him  !"  Philip  felt  no  embarrassment  whatsoever. 
Outside,  concealed  behind  a  cab  horse,  was  the 
erring  but  bitterly  repentant  husband;  inside, 
her  tenderest  thoughts  racing  tumultuously 
toward  him,  was  an  unhappy  child-wife  begging 
to  be  begged  to  pardon. 

For  a  New  York  reporter,  and  a  Harvard 
graduate  of  charm  and  good  manners,  it  was 
too  easy. 

"I  do  not  know  you,"  said  her  ladyship. 
But  even  as  she  spoke  she  motioned  to  the 
butler  to  go  away.  "You  must  be  one  of  his 
new  friends."  Her  tone  was  one  of  envy. 

"Indeed,  I  am  his  newest  friend,"  Philip 
assured  her;  "but  I  can  safely  say  no  one  knows 
his  thoughts  as  well  as  I.  And  they  are  all  of 
you/" 

The  china  shepherdess  blushed  with  happi 
ness,  but  instantly  she  shook  her  head. 

"They  tell  me  I  must  not  believe  him,"  she 
announced.  "They  tell  me " 

"Never  mind  what  they  tell  you,"  com 
manded  Philip.  "Listen  to  me.  He  loves  you. 
Better  than  ever  before,  he  loves  you.  AH  he 

204 


THE  MIND  READER 

asks  is  the  chance  to  tell  you  so.  You  cannot 
help  but  believe  him.  Who  can  look  at  you, 
and  not  believe  that  he  loves  you!  Let  me," 
he  begged,  "bring  him  to  you/'  He  started 
from  her  when,  remembering  the  somewhat 
violent  thoughts  of  the  youthful  husband,  he 
added  hastily:  "Or  perhaps  it  would  be  better 
if  you  called  him  yourself." 

"Called  him!"  exclaimed  the  lady.  "He  is 
in  Paris — at  the  races — with  her!" 

"If  they  tell  you  that  sort  of  thing,"  pro 
tested  Philip  indignantly,  "you  must  listen  to 
me.  He  is  not  in  Paris.  He  is  not  with  her. 
There  never  was  a  her !" 

He  drew  aside  the  lace  curtains  and  pointed. 
"He  is  there — behind  that  ancient  cab  horse, 
praying  that  you  will  let  him  tell  you  that  not 
only  did  he  never  do  it;  but,  what  is  much  more 
important,  he  will  never  do  it  again." 

The  lady  herself  now  timidly  drew  the  cur 
tains  apart,  and  then  more  boldly  showed  her 
self  upon  the  iron  balcony.  Leaning  over  the 
scarlet  geraniums,  she  beckoned  with  both 
hands.  The  result  was  instantaneous.  Philip 
bolted  for  the  front  door,  leaving  it  open;  and, 
as  he  darted  down  the  steps,  the  youthful  hus 
band,  in  strides  resembling  those  of  an  ostrich, 
shot  past  him.  Philip  did  not  cease  running 
until  he  was  well  out  of  Berkeley  Square. 

205 


THE  MIND  READER 

Then,  not  ill-pleased  with  the  adventure,  he 
turned  and  smiled  back  at  the  house  of  yellow 
stucco. 

"Bless  you,  my  children,"  he  murmured; 
"bless  you!" 

He  continued  to  the  Ritz;  and,  on  crossing 
Piccadilly  to  the  quieter  entrance  to  the  hotel 
in  Arlington  Street,  found  gathered  around  it  a 
considerable  crowd  drawn  up  on  either  side  of 
a  red  carpet  that  stretched  down  the  steps  of 
the  hotel  to  a  court  carriage.  A  red  carpet  in 
June,  when  all  is  dry  under  foot  and  the  sun  is 
shining  gently,  can  mean  only  royalty;  and  in 
the  rear  of  the  men  in  the  street  Philip  halted. 
He  remembered  that  for  a  few  days  the  young 
King  of  Asturia  and  the  Queen  Mother  were  at 
the  Ritz  incognito;  and,  as  he  never  had  seen 
the  young  man  who  so  recently  and  so  tragically 
had  been  exiled  from  his  own  kingdom,  Philip 
raised  himself  on  tiptoe  and  stared  expec 
tantly. 

As  easily  as  he  could  read  their  faces  could 
he  read  the  thoughts  of  those  about  him.  They 
were  thoughts  of  friendly  curiosity,  of  pity  for 
the  exiles;  on  the  part  of  the  policemen  who 
had  hastened  from  a  cross  street,  of  pride  at 
their  temporary  responsibility;  on  the  part  of 
the  coachman  of  the  court  carriage,  of  specu 
lation  as  to  the  possible  amount  of  his  Majesty's 

206 


THE  MIND   READER 

tip.     The  thoughts  were  as  harmless  and  pro 
tecting  as  the  warm  sunshine. 

And  then,  suddenly  and  harshly,  like  the 
stroke  of  a  fire  bell  at  midnight,  the  harmoni 
ous  chorus  of  gentle,  hospitable  thoughts  was 
shattered  by  one  that  was  discordant,  evil, 
menacing.  It  was  the  thought  of  a  man  with 
a  brain  diseased;  and  its  purpose  was  murder. 

"When  they  appear  at  the  doorway,"  spoke 
the  brain  of  the  maniac,  "  I  shall  lift  the  bomb 
from  my  pocket.  I  shall  raise  it  above  my 
head.  I  shall  crash  it  against  the  stone  steps. 
It  will  hurl  them  and  all  of  these  people  into 
eternity  and  me  with  them.  But  I  shall  live— 
a  martyr  to  the  Cause.  And  the  Cause  will 
flourish!" 

Through  the  unsuspecting  crowd,  like  a  foot 
ball  player  diving  for  a  tackle,  Philip  hurled 
himself  upon  a  little  dark  man  standing  close 
to  the  open  door  of  the  court  carriage.  From 
the  rear  Philip  seized  him  around  the  waist  and 
locked  his  arms  behind  him,  elbow  to  elbow. 
Philip's  face,  appearing  over  the  man's  shoulder, 
stared  straight  into  that  of  the  policeman. 

"He  has  a  bomb  in  his  right-hand  pocket!" 
yelled  Philip.  "I  can  hold  him  while  you  take 
it!  But,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  drop  it!" 
Philip  turned  upon  the  crowd.  "  Run !  all  of 
you!"  he  shouted.  "Run  like  the  devil!" 

207 


THE  MIND   READER 

At  that  instant  the  boy  King  and  his  Queen 
Mother,  herself  still  young  and  beautiful,  and 
cloaked  with  a  dignity  and  sorrow  that  her 
robes  of  mourning  could  not  intensify,  appeared 
in  the  doorway. 

"Go  back,  sir!"  warned  Philip.  "He  means 
to  kill  you!" 

At  the  words  and  at  sight  of  the  struggling 
men,  the  great  lady  swayed  helplessly,  her  eyes 
filled  with  terror.  Her  son  sprang  protectingly 
in  front  of  her.  But  the  danger  was  past.  A 
second  policeman  was  now  holding  the  maniac 
by  the  wrists,  forcing  his  arms  above  his  head; 
Philip's  arms,  like  a  lariat,  were  wound  around 
his  chest;  and  from  his  pocket  the  first  police 
man  gingerly  drew  forth  a  round,  black  object 
of  the  size  of  a  glass  fire-grenade.  He  held 
it  high  in  the  air,  and  waved  his  free  hand 
warningly.  But  the  warning  was  unobserved. 
There  was  no  one  remaining  to  observe  it. 
Leaving  the  would-be  assassin  struggling  and 
biting  in  the  grasp  of  the  stalwart  policeman, 
and  the  other  policeman  unhappily  holding  the 
bomb  at  arm's  length,  Philip  sought  to  escape 
into  the  Ritz.  But  the  young  King  broke 
through  the  circle  of  attendants  and  stopped 
him. 

"I  must  thank  you,"  said  the  boy  eagerly; 
"and  I  wish  you  to  tell  me  how  you  came  to 
suspect  the  man's  purpose." 

208 


THE  MIND   READER 

Unable  to  speak  the  truth,  Philip,  the  would- 
be  writer  of  fiction,  began  to  improvise  fluently. 

"To  learn  their  purpose,  sir,"  he  said,  "is  my 
business.  I  am  of  the  International  Police, 
and  in  the  secret  service  of  your  Majesty." 

"Then  I  must  know  your  name,"  said  the 
King,  and  added  with  a  dignity  that  was  most 
becoming,  "You  will  find  we  are  not  ungrate 
ful." 

Philip  smiled  mysteriously  and  shook  his 
head. 

"I  said  in  your  secret  service,"  he  repeated. 
"Did  even  your  Majesty  know  me,  my  useful 
ness  would  be  at  an  end."  He  pointed  toward 
the  two  policemen.  "If  you  desire  to  be  just, 
as  well  as  gracious,  those  are  the  men  to  re 
ward." 

He  slipped  past  the  King  and  through  the 
crowd  of  hotel  officials  into  the  hall  and  on  into 
the  corridor. 

The  arrest  had  taken  place  so  quietly  and  so 
quickly  that  through  the  heavy  glass  doors  no 
sound  had  penetrated,  and  of  the  fact  that  they 
had  been  so  close  to  a  possible  tragedy  those 
in  the  corridor  were  still  ignorant.  The  mem 
bers  of  the  Hungarian  orchestra  were  arranging 
their  music;  a  waiter  was  serving  two  men  of 
middle  age  with  sherry;  and  two  distinguished- 
looking  elderly  gentlemen  seated  together  on  a 
sofa  were  talking  in  leisurely  whispers. 

209 


THE  MIND   READER 

One  of  the  two  middle-aged  men  was  well 
known  to  Philip,  who  as  a  reporter  had  often, 
in  New  York,  endeavored  to  interview  him  on 
matters  concerning  the  steel  trust.  His  name 
was  Faust.  He  was  a  Pennsylvania  Dutchman 
from  Pittsburgh,  and  at  one  time  had  been  a 
foreman  of  the  night  shift  in  the  same  mills  he 
now  controlled.  But  with  a  roar  and  a  spec 
tacular  flash,  not  unlike  one  of  his  own  blast 
furnaces,  he  had  soared  to  fame  and  fortune. 
He  recognized  Philip  as  one  of  the  bright  young 
men  of  the  Republic;  but  in  his  own  opinion  he 
was  far  too  self-important  to  betray  that  fact. 

Philip  sank  into  an  imitation  Louis  Quatorze 
chair  beside  a  fountain  in  imitation  of  one  in 
the  apartment  of  the  Pompadour,  and  ordered 
what  he  knew  would  be  an  execrable  imitation 
of  an  American  cocktail.  While  waiting  for 
the  cocktail  and  Lady  Woodcote's  luncheon 
party,  Philip,  from  where  he  sat,  could  not  help 
but  overhear  the  conversation  of  Faust  and  of 
the  man  with  him.  The  latter  was  a  German 
with  Hebraic  features  and  a  pointed  beard.  In 
loud  tones  he  was  congratulating  the  American 
many-time  millionaire  on  having  that  morning 
come  into  possession  of  a  rare  and  valuable 
masterpiece,  a  hitherto  unknown  and  but  re 
cently  discovered  portrait  of  Philip  IV  by 
Velasquez. 

210 


THE  MIND   READER 

Philip  sighed  enviously. 

"Fancy,"  he  thought,  "owning  a  Velasquez! 
Fancy  having  it  all  to  yourself!  It  must  be 
fun  to  be  rich.  It  certainly  is  hell  to  be  poor !" 

The  German,  who  was  evidently  a  picture- 
dealer,  was  exclaiming  in  tones  of  rapture,  and 
nodding  his  head  with  an  air  of  awe  and  so 
lemnity. 

"I  am  telling  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Faust,"  he 
said.  "In  no  gallery  in  Europe,  no,  not  even 
in  the  Prado,  is  there  such  another  Velasquez. 
This  is  what  you  are  doing,  Mr.  Faust,  you  are 
robbing  Spain.  You  are  robbing  her  of  some 
thing  worth  more  to  her  than  Cuba.  And  I 
tell  you,  so  soon  as  it  is  known  that  this  Velas 
quez  is  going  to  your  home  in  Pittsburgh,  every 
Spaniard  will  hate  you  and  every  art-collector 
will  hate  you,  too.  For  it  is  the  most  wonder 
ful  art  treasure  in  Europe.  And  what  a  bar 
gain,  Mr.  Faust!  What  a  bargain!" 

To  make  sure  that  the  reporter  was  within 
hearing,  Mr.  Faust  glanced  in  the  direction  of 
Philip  and,  seeing  that  he  had  heard,  frowned 
importantly.  That  the  reporter  might  hear 
still  more,  he  also  raised  his  voice. 

"Nothing  can  be  called  a  bargain,  Baron," 
he  said,  "that  costs  three  hundred  thousand 
dollars!" 

Again  he  could  not  resist  glancing  toward 
211 


THE  MIND  READER 

Philip,  and  so  eagerly  that  Philip  deemed  it 
would  be  only  polite  to  look  interested.  So  he 
obligingly  assumed  a  startled  look,  with  which 
he  endeavored  to  mingle  simulations  of  sur 
prise,  awe,  and  envy. 

The  next  instant  an  expression  of  real  sur 
prise  overspread  his  features. 

Mr.  Faust  continued.  "  If  you  will  come  up 
stairs,"  he  said  to  the  picture-dealer,  "I  will 
give  you  your  check;  and  then  I  should  like  to 
drive  to  your  apartments  and  take  a  farewell 
look  at  the  picture." 

"I  am  sorry,"  the  Baron  said,  "but  I  have 
had  it  moved  to  my  art  gallery  to  be  packed." 

"Then  let's  go  to  the  gallery,"  urged  the 
patron  of  art.  "  We've  just  time  before  lunch." 
He  rose  to  his  feet,  and  on  the  instant  the  soul 
of  the  picture-dealer  was  filled  with  alarm. 

In  actual  words  he  said:  "The  picture  is  al 
ready  boxed  and  in  its  lead  coffin.  No  doubt 
by  now  it  is  on  its  way  to  Liverpool.  I  am 
sorry."  But  his  thoughts,  as  Philip  easily  read 
them,  were:  "Fancy  my  letting  this  vulgar  fool 
into  the  Tate  Street  workshop !  Even  he  would 
know  that  old  masters  are  not  found  in  a  half- 
finished  state  on  Chelsea-made  frames  and  can 
vases.  Fancy  my  letting  him  see  those  two 
half-completed  Van  Dycks,  the  new  Hals,  the 
half-dozen  Corots.  He  would  even  see  his  own 

212 


THE  MIND  READER 

copy  of  Velasquez  next  to  the  one  exactly  like 
it — the  one  MacMillan  finished  yesterday  and 
that  I  am  sending  to  Oporto,  where  next  year, 
in  a  convent,  we  shall  'discover'  it." 

Philip's  surprise  gave  way  to  intense  amuse 
ment.  In  his  delight  at  the  situation  upon 
which  he  had  stumbled,  he  laughed  aloud. 
The  two  men,  who  had  risen,  surprised  at  the 
spectacle  of  a  young  man  laughing  at  nothing, 
turned  and  stared.  Philip  also  rose. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said  to  Faust,  "but  you 
spoke  so  loud  I  couldn't  help  overhearing.  I 
think  we've  met  before,  when  I  was  a  reporter 
on  the  Republic." 

The  Pittsburgh  millionaire  made  a  pretense 
of  annoyance. 

"Really!"  he  protested  irritably,  "you  re 
porters  butt  in  everywhere.  No  public  man  is 
safe.  Is  there  no  place  we  can  go  where  you 
fellows  won't  annoy  us?" 

"You  can  go  to  the  devil  for  all  I  care,"  said 
Philip,  "or  even  to  Pittsburgh!" 

He  saw  the  waiter  bearing  down  upon  him 
with  the  imitation  cocktail,  and  moved  to  meet 
it.  The  millionaire,  fearing  the  reporter  would 
escape  him,  hastily  changed  his  tone.  He  spoke 
with  effective  resignation. 

"However,  since  you've  learned  so  much," 
he  said,  "  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  of  it.  I  don't 

213 


THE  MIND  READER 

want  the  fact  garbled,  for  it  is  of  international 
importance.  Do  you  know  what  a  Velasquez 
is?" 

"Do  you?"  asked  Philip. 

The  millionaire  smiled  tolerantly. 

"I  think  I  do,"  he  said.  "And  to  prove  it, 
I  shall  tell  you  something  that  will  be  news  to 
you.  I  have  just  bought  a  Velasquez  that  I 
am  going  to  place  in  my  art  museum.  It  is 
worth  three  hundred  thousand  dollars." 

Philip  accepted  the  cocktail  the  waiter  pre 
sented.  It  was  quite  as  bad  as  he  had  expected. 

"Now,  I  shall  tell  you  something,"  he  said, 
"that  will  be  news  to  you.  You  are  not  buy 
ing  a  Velasquez.  It  is  no  more  a  Velasquez 
than  this  hair  oil  is  a  real  cocktail.  It  is  a  bad 
copy,  worth  a  few  dollars." 

"How  dare  you !"  shouted  Faust.  "Are  you 
mad?" 

The  face  of  the  German  turned  crimson  with 
rage. 

"Who  is  this  insolent  one?"  he  sputtered. 

"I  will  make  you  a  sporting  proposition," 
said  Philip.  "You  can  take  it,  or  leave  it. 
You  two  will  get  into  a  taxi.  You  will  drive  to 
this  man's  studio  in  Tate  Street.  You  will  find 
your  Velasquez  is  there  and  not  on  its  way  to 
Liverpool.  And  you  will  find  one  exactly  like 
it,  and  a  dozen  other  'old  masters*  half-finished-. 

214 


THE  MIND   READER 

Til  bet  you  a  hundred  pounds  I'm  right !  And 
I'll  bet  this  man  a  hundred  pounds  that  he 
doesnt  dare  take  you  to  bis  studio!" 

"Indeed,  I  will  not,"  roared  the  German. 
"It  would  be  to  insult  myself." 

"It  would  be  an  easy  way  to  earn  a  hundred 
pounds,  too,"  said  Philip. 

"How  dare  you  insult  the  Baron?"  de 
manded  Faust.  "What  makes  you  think— 

"I  don't  think,  I  know!"  said  Philip.  "For 
the  price  of  a  taxi-cab  fare  to  Tate  Street,  you 
win  a  hundred  pounds." 

"We  will  all  three  go  at  once,"  cried  the  Ger 
man.  "My  car  is  outside.  Wait  here.  I  will 
have  it  brought  to  the  door?" 

Faust  protested  indignantly. 

"Do  not  disturb  yourself,  Baron,"  he  said; 
"just  because  a  fresh  reporter " 

But  already  the  German  had  reached  the 
hall.  Nor  did  he  stop  there.  They  saw  him, 
without  his  hat,  rush  into  Piccadilly,  spring 
into  a  taxi,  and  shout  excitedly  to  the  driver. 
The  next  moment  he  had  disappeared. 

"That's  the  last  you'll  see  of  him,"  said 
Philip. 

"His  actions  are  certainly  peculiar,"  gasped 
the  millionaire.  "He  did  not  wait  for  us.  He 
didn't  even  wait  for  his  hat !  I  think,  after  all, 
I  had  better  go  to  Tate  Street.'* 

215 


THE  MIND   READER 

"Do  so,"  said  Philip,  "and  save  yourself 
three  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  from  the 
laughter  of  two  continents.  You'll  find  me 
here  at  lunch.  If  I'm  wrong,  I'll  pay  you  a 
hundred  pounds." 

"You  should  come  with  me,"  said  Faust. 
"It  is  only  fair  to  yourself." 

"  I'll  take  your  word  for  what  you  find  in  the 
studio,"  said  Philip.  "I  cannot  go.  This  is 
my  busy  day." 

Without  further  words,  the  millionaire  col 
lected  his  hat  and  stick,  and,  in  his  turn,  en 
tered  a  taxi-cab  and  disappeared. 

Philip  returned  to  the  Louis  Quatorze  chair 
and  lit  a  cigarette.  Save  for  the  two  elderly 
gentlemen  on  the  sofa,  the  lounge  was  still 
empty,  and  his  reflections  were  undisturbed. 
He  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"Surely,"  Philip  thought,  "the  French  chap 
was  right  who  said  words  were  given  us  to  con 
ceal  our  thoughts.  What  a  strange  world  it 
would  be  if  every  one  possessed  my  power. 
Deception  would  be  quite  futile  and  lying  would 
become  a  lost  art.  I  wonder,"  he  mused  cyni 
cally,  "is  any  one  quite  honest?  Does  any  one 
speak  as  he  thinks  and  think  as  he  speaks?" 

At  once  came  a  direct  answer  to  his  question. 
The  two  elderly  gentlemen  had  risen  and,  be 
fore  separating,  had  halted  a  few  feet  from  him. 

216 


THE  MIND   READER 

"I  sincerely  hope,  Sir  John/'  said  one  of  thfc 
two,  "that  you  have  no  regrets.  I  hope  you 
believe  that  I  have  advised  you  in  the  best  in 
terests  of  all?" 

"I  do,  indeed,"  the  other  replied  heartily. 
"We  shall  be  thought  entirely  selfish;  but  you 
know  and  I  know  that  what  we  have  done  is 
for  the  benefit  of  the  shareholders." 

Philip  was  pleased  to  find  that  the  thoughts 
of  each  of  the  old  gentlemen  ran  hand  in  hand 
with  his  spoken  words.  "Here,  at  least,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "are  two  honest  men." 

As  though  loath  to  part,  the  two  gentlemen 
still  lingered. 

"And  I  hope,"  continued  the  one  addressed 
as  Sir  John,  "that  you  approve  of  my  holding 
back  the  public  announcement  of  the  combine 
until  the  afternoon.  It  will  give  the  share 
holders  a  better  chance.  Had  we  given  out 
the  news  in  this  morning's  papers  the  stock 
brokers  would  have " 

"It  was  most  wise,"  interrupted  the  other. 
Most  just." 

The  one  called  Sir  John  bowed  himself  away, 
leaving  the  other  still  standing  at  the  steps  of 
the  lounge.  With  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
his  chin  sunk  on  his  chest,  he  remained,  gazing 
at  nothing,  his  thoughts  far  away. 

Philip  found  them  thoughts  of  curious  inter- 
217 


(C 


THE  MIND  READER 

est.  They  were  concerned  with  three  flags. 
Now,  the  gentleman  considered  them  sepa 
rately;  and  Philip  saw  the  emblems  painted 
clearly  in  colors,  fluttering  and  flattened  by  the 
breeze.  Again,  the  gentleman  considered  them 
in  various  combinations;  but  always,  in  what 
ever  order  his  mind  arranged  them,  of  the  three 
his  heart  spoke  always  to  the  same  flag,  as  the 
heart  of  a  mother  reaches  toward  her  first 
born. 

Then  the  thoughts  were  diverted;  and  in  his 
mind's  eye  the  old  gentleman  was  watching  the 
launching  of  a  little  schooner  from  a  shipyard 
on  the  Clyde.  At  her  main  flew  one  of  the 
three  flags — a  flag  with  a  red  cross  on  a  white 
ground.  With  thoughts  tender  and  grateful,  he 
followed  her  to  strange,  hot  ports,  through  hur 
ricanes  and  tidal  waves;  he  saw  her  return  again 
and  again  to  the  London  docks,  laden  with 
odorous  coffee,  mahogany,  red  rubber,  and  raw 
bullion.  He  saw  sister  ships  follow  in  her  wake 
to  every  port  in  the  South  Sea;  saw  steam  pack 
ets  take  the  place  of  the  ships  with  sails;  saw 
the  steam  packets  give  way  to  great  ocean 
liners,  each  a  floating  village,  each  equipped, 
as  no  village  is  equipped,  with  a  giant  power 
house,  thousands  of  electric  lamps,  suite  after 
suite  of  silk-lined  boudoirs,  with  the  floating 
harps  that  vibrate  to  a  love  message  three  hun- 

218 


THE  MIND  READER 

dred  miles  away,  to  the  fierce  call  for  help  from 
a  sinking  ship.  But  at  the  main  of  each  great 
vessel  there  still  flew  the  same  house-flag — the 
red  cross  on  the  field  of  white — only  now  in  the 
arms  of  the  cross  there  nestled  proudly  a  royal 
crown. 

Philip  cast  a  scared  glance  at  the  old  gentle 
man,  and  raced  down  the  corridor  to  the  tele 
phone. 

Of  all  the  young  Englishmen  he  knew,  Mad- 
dox  was  his  best  friend  and  a  stock-broker.  In 
that  latter  capacity  Philip  had  never  before 
addressed  him.  Now  he  demanded  his  instant 
presence  at  the  telephone. 

Maddox  greeted  him  genially,  but  Philip  cut 
him  short. 

"I  want  you  to  act  for  me,"  he  whispered, 
"and  act  quick !  I  want  you  to  buy  for  me  one 
thousand  shares  of  the  Royal  Mail  Line,  of  the 
Elder-Dempster,  and  of  the  Union  Castle." 

He  heard  Maddox  laugh  indulgently. 

"There's  nothing  in  that  yarn  of  a  combine," 
he  called.  "It  has  fallen  through.  Besides, 
shares  are  at  fifteen  pounds." 

Philip,  having  in  his  possession  a  second-class 
ticket  and  a  five-pound  note,  was  indifferent  to 
that,  and  said  so. 

"  I  don't  care  what  they  are,"  he  shouted. 
"The  combine  is  already  signed  and  sealed, 

219 


THE  MIND  READER 

and  no  one  knows  it  but  myself.  In  an  hour 
everybody  will  know  it!" 

"What  makes  you  think  you  know  it?"  de 
manded  the  broker. 

"I've  seen  the  house-flags !"  cried  Philip.  "I 
have — do  as  I  tell  you,"  he  commanded. 

There  was  a  distracting  delay. 

"No  matter  who's  back  of  you,"  objected 
Maddox,  "it's  a  big  order  on  a  gamble." 

"It's  not  a  gamble,"  cried  Philip.  "It's  an 
accomplished  fact.  I'm  at  the  Ritz.  Call  me 
up  there.  Start  buying  now,  and,  when  you've 
got  a  thousand  of  each,  stop !" 

Philip  was  much  too  agitated  to  go  far  from 
the  telephone  booth;  so  for  half  an  hour  he  sat 
in  the  reading-room,  forcing  himself  to  read  the 
illustrated  papers.  When  he  found  he  had  read 
the  same  advertisement  five  times,  he  returned 
to  the  telephone.  The  telephone  boy  met  him 
half-way  with  a  message. 

"Have  secured  for  you  a  thousand  shares  of 
each,"  he  read,  "at  fifteen.  Maddox." 

Like  a  man  awakening  from  a  nightmare, 
Philip  tried  to  separate  the  horror  of  the  situa 
tion  from  the  cold  fact.  The  cold  fact  was 
sufficiently  horrible.  It  was  that,  without  a 
penny  to  pay  for  them,  he  had  bought  shares 
in  three  steamship  lines,  which  shares,  added 
together,  were  worth  two  hundred  and  twenty- 

220 


THE  MIND  READER 

five  thousand  dollars.  He  returned  down  the 
corridor  toward  the  lounge.  Trembling  at  his 
own  audacity,  he  was  in  a  state  of  almost  com 
plete  panic,  when  that  happened  which  made 
his  outrageous  speculation  of  little  consequence. 
It  was  drawing  near  to  half-past  one;  and,  in 
the  persons  of  several  smart  men  and  beautiful 
ladies,  the  component  parts  of  different  lunch 
eon  parties  were  beginning  to  assemble. 

Of  the  luncheon  to  which  Lady  Woodcote  had 
invited  him,  only  one  guest  had  arrived;  but, 
so  far  as  Philip  was  concerned,  that  one  was 
sufficient.  It  was  Helen  herself,  seated  alone, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  doors  opening  from 
Piccadilly.  Philip,  his  heart  singing  with  ap 
peals,  blessings,  and  adoration,  ran  toward  her. 
Her  profile  was  toward  him,  and  she  could  not, 
see  him;  but  he  could  see  her.  And  he  noted 
that,  as  though  seeking  some  one,  her  eyes  were 
turned  searchingly  upon  each  young  man  as 
he  entered  and  moved  from  one  to  another  of 
those  already  in  the  lounge.  Her  expression 
was  eager  and  anxious. 

"If  only,"  Philip  exclaimed,  "she  were  look 
ing  for  me!  She  certainly  is  looking  for  some 
man.  I  wonder  who  it  can  be?" 

As  suddenly  as  if  he  had  slapped  his  face  into 
a  wall,  he  halted  in  his  steps.  Why  should  he 
wonder?  Why  did  he  not  read  her  mind? 

221 


THE  MIND   READER 

Why  did  he  not  know?  A  waiter  was  hastening 
toward  him.  Philip  fixed  his  mind  upon  the 
waiter,  and  his  eyes  as  well.  Mentally  Philip 
demanded  of  him:  "Of  what  are  you  thinking?" 

There  was  no  response.  And  then,  seeing  an 
unlit  cigarette  hanging  from  Philip's  lips,  the 
waiter  hastily  struck  a  match  and  proffered  it. 
Obviously,  his  mind  had  worked,  first,  in  ob 
serving  the  half-burned  cigarette;  next,  in  fur 
nishing  the  necessary  match.  And  of  no  step 
in  that  mental  process  had  Philip  been  con 
scious  !  The  conclusion  was  only  too  apparent. 
His  power  was  gone.  No  longer  was  he  a  mind 
reader ! 

Hastily  Philip  reviewed  the  adventures  of 
the  morning.  As  he  considered  them,  the  moral 
was  obvious.  The  moment  he  had  used  his 
power  to  his  own  advantage,  he  had  lost  it. 
So  long  as  he  had  exerted  it  for  the  happiness 
of  the  two  lovers,  to  save  the  life  of  the  King, 
to  thwart  the  dishonesty  of  a  swindler,  he  had 
been  all-powerful;  but  when  he  endeavored  to 
bend  it  to  his  own  uses,  it  had  fled  from  him. 
As  he  stood  abashed  and  repentant,  Helen 
turned  her  eyes  toward  him;  and,  at  the  sight 
of  him,  there  leaped  to  them  happiness  and  wel 
come  and  complete  content.  It  was  "the  look 
that  never  was  on  land  or  sea,"  and  it  was  not 
necessary  to  be  a  mind  reader  to  understand  it. 

222 


THE  MIND  READER 

Philip  sprang  toward  her  as  quickly  as  a  man 
dodges  a  taxi-cab. 

"I  came  early,"  said  Helen,  "because  I 
wanted  to  talk  to  you  before  the  others  arrived.'* 
She  seemed  to  be  repeating  words  already  re 
hearsed,  to  be  following  a  course  of  conduct 
already  predetermined.  "I  want  to  tell  you," 
she  said,  "that  I  am  sorry  you  are  going  away. 
I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  shall  miss  you  very 
much."  She  paused  and  drew  a  long  breath. 
And  she  looked  at  Philip  as  if  she  was  begging 
him  to  make  it  easier  for  her  to  go  on. 

Philip  proceeded  to  make  it  easier. 

"Will  you  miss  me,"  he  asked,  "in  the  Row, 
where  I  used  to  wait  among  the  trees  to  see  you 
ride  past?  Will  you  miss  me  at  dances,  where 
I  used  to  hide  behind  the  dowagers  to  watch 
you  waltzing  by?  Will  you  miss  me  at  night, 
when  you  come  home  by  sunrise,  and  I  am  not 
hiding  against  the  railings  of  the  Carlton  Club, 
just  to  see  you  run  across  the  pavement  from 
your  carriage,  just  to  see  the  light  on  your  win 
dow  blind,  just  to  see  the  light  go  out,  and  to 
know  that  you  are  sleeping?" 

Helen's  eyes  were  smiling  happily.  She 
looked  away  from  him. 

"Did  you  use  to  do  that?"  she  asked. 

"Every  night  I  do  that,"  said  Philip.  "Ask 
the  policemen !  They  arrested  me  three  times." 

223 


THE  MIND   READER 

"Why?"  said  Helen  gently. 

But  Philip  was  not  yet  free  to  speak,  so  he 
said: 

:<They  thought  I  was  a  burglar." 

Helen  frowned.  He  was  making  it  very  hard 
for  her. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  she  said.  "Why 
did  you  keep  guard  outside  my  window?" 

"It  was  the  policeman  kept  guard,"  said 
Philip.  "I  was  there  only  as  a  burglar.  I 
came  to  rob.  But  I  was  a  coward,  or  else  I 
had  a  conscience,  or  else  I  knew  my  own  un- 
worthiness."  There  was  a  long  pause.  As 
both  of  them,  whenever  they  heard  the  tune 
afterward,  always  remembered,  the  Hungarian 
band,  with  rare  inconsequence,  was  playing  the 
"Grizzly  Bear,"  and  people  were  trying  to 
speak  to  Helen.  By  her  they  were  received 
with  a  look  of  so  complete  a  lack  of  recognition, 
and  by  Philip  with  a  glare  of  such  savage  hate, 
that  they  retreated  in  dismay.  The  pause 
seemed  to  last  for  many  years. 

At  last  Helen  said:  "Do  you  know  the  story 
of  the  two  roses?  They  grew  in  a  garden  under 
a  lady's  window.  They  both  loved  her.  One 
looked  up  at  her  from  the  ground  and  sighed 
for  her;  but  the  other  climbed  to  the  lady's 
window,  and  she  lifted  him  in  and  kissed  him 
— because  he  had  dared  to  climb." 

224 


THE  MIND  READER 

Philip  took  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it. 
But  Helen  did  not  mind  his  doing  that,  because 
she  saw  that  his  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 
She  was  delighted  to  find  that  she  was  making 
it  very  hard  for  him,  too. 

"At  any  moment,"  Philip  said,  "I  may  know 
whether  I  owe  two  hundred  and  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars  which  I  can  never  pay,  or 
whether  I  am  worth  about  that  sum.  I  should 
like  to  continue  this  conversation  at  the  exact 
place  where  you  last  spoke — after  I  know 
whether  I  am  going  to  jail,  or  whether  I  am 
worth  a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars." 

Helen  laughed  aloud  with  happiness. 

"I  knew  that  was  it!"  she  cried.  "You 
don't  like  my  money.  I  was  afraid  you  did 
not  like  me.  If  you  dislike  my  money,  I  will 
give  it  away,  or  I  will  give  it  to  you  to  keep 
for  me.  The  money  does  not  matter,  so  long 
as  you  don't  dislike  me." 

What  Philip  would  have  said  to  that,  Helen 
could  not  know,  for  a  page  in  many  buttons 
rushed  at  him  with  a  message  from  the  tele 
phone,  and  with  a  hand  that  trembled  Philip 
snatched  it.  It  read:  "Combine  is  announced, 
shares  have  gone  to  thirty-one,  shall  I  hold  or 
sell?" 

That  at  such  a  crisis  he  should  permit  of  any 
interruption  hurt  Helen  deeply.  She  regarded 

225 


THE  MIND  READER 

him  with  unhappy  eyes.  Philip  read  the  mes 
sage  three  times.  At  last,  and  not  without 
uneasy  doubts  as  to  his  own  sanity,  he  grasped 
the  preposterous  truth.  He  was  worth  almost 
a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars !  At  the  page  he 
shoved  his  last  and  only  five-pound  note.  He 
pushed  the  boy  from  him. 

"Run!"  he  commanded.  "Get  out  of  here! 
Tell  him  he  is  to  sell!" 

He  turned  to  Helen  with  a  look  in  his  eyes  that 
could  not  be  questioned  or  denied.  He  seemed 
incapable  of  speech,  and,  to  break  the  silence, 
Helen  said:  "Is  it  good  news?" 

"That  depends  entirely  upon  you,"  replied 
Philip  soberly.  "Indeed,  all  my  future  life 
depends  upon  what  you  are  going  to  say  next/" 

Helen  breathed  deeply  and  happily. 

"And — \vhat  am  I  going  to  say?" 

"How  can  I  know  that?"  demanded  Philip. 
"Am  I  a  mind  reader?" 

But  what  she  said  may  be  safely  guessed  from 
the  fact  that  they  both  chucked  Lady  Wood- 
cote's  luncheon,  and  ate  one  of  penny  buns, 
which  they  shared  with  the  bears  in  Regents 
Park. 

Philip  was  just  able  to  pay  for  the  penny 
buns.  Helen  paid  for  the  taxi-cab. 


226 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

IN  their  home  town  of  Keepsburg,  the  Keeps 
were  the  reigning  dynasty,  socially  and  in  every 
way.  Old  man  Keep  was  president  of  the 
trolley  line,  the  telephone  company,  and  the 
Keep  National  Bank.  But  Fred,  his  son,  and 
the  heir  apparent,  did  not  inherit  the  business 
ability  of  his  father;  or,  if  he  did,  he  took  pains 
to  conceal  that  fact.  Fred  had  gone  through 
Harvard,  but  as  to  that  also,  unless  he  told 
people,  they  would  not  have  known  it.  Ten 
minutes  after  Fred  met  a  man  he  generally 
told  him. 

When  Fred  arranged  an  alliance  with  Winnie 
Platt,  who  also  was  of  the  innermost  inner  set 
of  Keepsburg,  everybody  said  Keepsburg  would 
soon  lose  them.  And  everybody  was  right. 
When  single,  each  had  sighed  for  other  social 
worlds  to  conquer,  and  when  they  combined 
their  fortunes  and  ambitions  they  found  Keeps 
burg  impossible,  and  they  left  it  to  lay  siege  to 
New  York.  They  were  too  crafty  to  at  once 
attack  New  York  itself.  A  widow  lady  they 
met  while  on  their  honeymoon  at  Palm  Beach 
had  told  them  not  to  attempt  that.  And  as 

227 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

she  was  the  Palm  Beach  correspondent  of  a 
society  paper  they  naturally  accepted  her  advice. 
She  warned  them  that  in  New  York  the  waiting- 
list  is  already  interminable,  and  that,  if  you 
hoped  to  break  into  New  York  society,  the 
clever  thing  to  do  was  to  lay  siege  to  it  by  way 
of  the  suburbs  and  the  country  clubs.  If  you 
went  direct  to  New  York  knowing  no  one,  you 
would  at  once  expose  that  fact,  and  the  result 
would  be  disastrous. 

She  told  them  of  a  couple  like  themselves, 
young  and  rich  and  from  the  West,  who,  at  the 
first  dance  to  which  they  were  invited,  asked, 
"Who  is  the  old  lady  in  the  wig?"  and  that 
question  argued  them  so  unknown  that  it  set 
them  back  two  years.  It  was  a  terrible  story, 
and  it  filled  the  Keeps  with  misgivings.  They 
agreed  with  the  lady  correspondent  that  it  was 
far  better  to  advance  leisurely;  first  firmly  to 
intrench  themselves  in  the  suburbs,  and  then  to 
enter  New  York,  not  as  the  Keeps  from  Keeps- 
burg,  which  meant  nothing,  but  as  the  Fred 
Keeps  of  Long  Island,  or  Westchester,  or  Borden- 
town. 

"  In  all  of  those  places,"  explained  the  widow 
lady,  "our  smartest  people  have  country  homes, 
and  at  the  country  club  you  may  get  to  know 
them.  Then,  when  winter  comes,  you  follow 
them  on  to  the  city." 

228 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

The  point  from  which  the  Keeps  elected  to 
launch  their  attack  was  Scarboro-on-the-Hudson. 
They  selected  Scarboro  because  both  of  them 
could  play  golf,  and  they  planned  that  their 
first  skirmish  should  be  fought  and  won  upon 
the  golf-links  of  the  Sleepy  Hollow  Country 
Club.  But  the  attack  did  not  succeed.  Some 
thing  went  wrong.  They  began  to  fear  that  the 
lady  correspondent  had  given  them  the  wrong 
dope.  For,  although  three  months  had  passed, 
and  they  had  played  golf  together  until  they 
were  as  loath  to  clasp  a  golf  club  as  a  red-hot 
poker,  they  knew  no  one,  and  no  one  knew  them. 
That  is,  they  did  not  know  the  Van  Wardens; 
*  and  if  you  lived  at  Scarboro  and  were  not  recog 
nized  by  the  Van  Wardens,  you  were  not  to  be 
found  on  any  map. 

Since  the  days  of  Hendrik  Hudson  the  coun 
try-seat  of  the  Van  Wardens  had  looked  down 
upon  the  river  that  bears  his  name,  and  ever 
since  those  days  the  Van  Wardens  had  looked 
down  upon  everybody  else.  They  were  so  proud 
that  at  all  their  gates  they  had  placed  signs 
reading,  "No  horses  allowed.  Take  the  other 
road."  The  other  road  was  an  earth  road  used 
by  tradespeople  from  Ossining;  the  road  re 
served  for  the  Van  Wardens,  and  automobiles, 
was  of  bluestone.  It  helped  greatly  to  give  the 
Van  Warden  estate  the  appearance  of  a  well- 

229 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

kept  cemetery.  And  those  Van  Wardens  who 
occupied  the  country-place  were  as  cold  and 
unsociable  as  the  sort  of  people  who  occupy 
cemeteries — except  "Harry"  Van  Warden,  and 
he  lived  in  New  York  at  the  Turf  Club. 

Harry,  according  to  all  local  tradition — for  he 
frequently  motored  out  to  Warden  Koopf,  the 
Van  Warden  country-seat — and,  according  to 
the  newspapers,  was  a  devil  of  a  fellow  and  in 
no  sense  cold  or  unsociable.  So  far  as  the 
Keeps  read  of  him,  he  was  always  being  arrested 
for  overspeeding,  or  breaking  his  collar-bone  out 
hunting,  or  losing  his  front  teeth  at  polo.  This 
greatly  annoyed  the  proud  sisters  at  Warden 
Koopf;  not  because  Harry  was  arrested  or  had 
broken  his  collar-bone,  but  because  it  dragged 
the  family  name  into  the  newspapers. 

"  If  you  would  only  play  polo  or  ride  to  hounds 
instead  of  playing  golf,"  sighed  Winnie  Keep  to 
her  husband,  "you  would  meet  Harry  Van 
Warden,  and  he'd  introduce  you  to  his  sisters, 
and  then  we  could  break  in  anywhere." 

"If  I  was  to  ride  to  hounds,"  returned  her 
husband,  "the  only  thing  I'd  break  would  be 
my  neck." 

The  country-place  of  the  Keeps  was  com 
pletely  satisfactory,  and  for  the  purposes  of 
their  social  comedy  the  stage-setting  was  perfect. 
The  house  was  one  they  had  rented  from  a  man 

230 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

of  charming  taste  and  inflated  fortune;  and  with 
it  they  had  taken  over  his  well-disciplined 
butler,  his  pictures,  furniture,  family  silver,  and 
linen.  It  stood  upon  an  eminence,  was  heavily 
wooded,  and  surrounded  by  many  gardens;  but 
its  chief  attraction  was  an  artificial  lake  well 
stocked  with  trout  that  lay  directly  below  the 
terrace  of  the  house  and  also  in  full  view  from 
the  road  to  Albany. 

This  latter  fact  caused  Winnie  Keep  much 
concern.  In  the  neighborhood  were  many  Ital 
ian  laborers,  and  on  several  nights  the  fish 
had  tempted  these  born  poachers  to  trespass; 
and  more  than  once,  on  hot  summer  evenings, 
small  boys  from  Tarrytown  and  Ossining  had 
broken  through  the  hedge,  and  used  the  lake 
as  a  swimming-pool. 

"It  makes  me  nervous,"  complained  Winnie. 
"I  don't  like  the  idea  of  people  prowling  around 
so  near  the  house.  And  think  of  those  twelve 
hundred  convicts,  not  one  mile  away,  in  Sing 
Sing.  Most  of  them  are  burglars,  and  if  they 
ever  get  out,  our  house  is  the  very  first  one 
they'll  break  into." 

"  I  haven't  caught  anybody  in  this  neighbor 
hood  breaking  into  our  house  yet,"  said  Fred, 
"and  I'd  be  glad  to  see  even  a  burglar!" 

They  were  seated  on  the  brick  terrace  that 
overlooked  the  lake.  It  was  just  before  the 

231 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

dinner  hour,  and  the  dusk  of  a  wonderful 
October  night  had  fallen  on  the  hedges,  the 
clumps  of  evergreens,  the  rows  of  close-clipped 
box.  A  full  moon  was  just  showing  itself  above 
the  tree-tops,  turning  the  lake  into  moving 
silver.  Fred  rose  from  his  wicker  chair  and, 
crossing  to  his  young  bride,  touched  her  hair 
fearfully  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

"What  if  we  don't  know  anybody,  Win,"  he 
said,  "and  nobody  knows  us?  It's  been  a  per 
fectly  good  honeymoon,  hasn't  it?  If  you  just 
look  at  it  that  way,  it  works  out  all  right.  We 
came  here  really  for  our  honeymoon,  to  be 
together,  to  be  alone- 
Winnie  laughed  shortly.  "They  certainly 
have  left  us  alone!"  she  sighed. 

"  But  where  else  could  we  have  been  any  hap 
pier?"  demanded  the  young  husband  loyally. 
"Where  wrill  you  find  any  prettier  place  than 
this,  just  as  it  is  at  this  minute,  so  still  and 
sweet  and  silent?  There's  nothing  the  matter 
with  that  moon,  is  there?  Nothing  the  matter 
with  the  lake?  Where's  there  a  better  place 
for  a  honeymoon?  It's  a  bower — a  bower  of 
peace,  solitude  a — bower  of— 

As  though  mocking  his  words,  there  burst 
upon  the  sleeping  countryside  the  shriek  of  a 
giant  siren.  It  was  raucous,  virulent,  insulting. 
It  came  as  sharply  as  a  scream  of  terror,  it 

232 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

continued  in  a  bellow  of  rage.  Then,  as  sud 
denly  as  it  had  cried  aloud,  it  sank  to  silence; 
only  after  a  pause  of  an  instant,  as  though  giving 
a  signal,  to  shriek  again  in  two  sharp  blasts. 
And  then  again  it  broke  into  the  hideous  long- 
drawn  scream  of  rage,  insistent,  breathless, 
commanding;  filling  the  soul  of  him  who  heard 
it,  even  of  the  innocent,  with  alarm. 

"In  the  name  of  Heaven!"  gasped  Keep, 
"what's  that?" 

Down  the  terrace  the  butler  was  hastening 
toward  them.  When  he  stopped,  he  spoke  as 
though  he  were  announcing  dinner.  "  A  convict, 
sir,"  he  said,  "has  escaped  from  Sing  Sing.  I 
thought  you  might  not  understand  the  whistle. 
I  thought  perhaps  you  would  wish  Mrs.  Keep  to 
come  in-doors." 

"Why?"  asked  Winnie  Keep. 

"The  house  is  near  the  road,  madam,"  said 
the  butler.  "And  there  are  so  many  trees  and 
bushes.  Last  summer  two  of  them  hid  here, 
and  the  keepers — there  was  a  fight." 

The  man  glanced  at  Keep.  Fred  touched  his 
wife  on  the  arm. 

"  It's  time  to  dress  for  dinner,  Win,"  he  said. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  demanded 
Winnie. 

"I'm  going  to  finish  this  cigar  first.  It 
doesn't  take  me  long  to  change."  He  turned  to 

233 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

the  butler.  "And  I'll  have  a  cocktail,  too. 
I'll  have  it  out  here." 

The  servant  left  them,  but  in  the  French 
window  that  opened  from  the  terrace  to  the 
library  Mrs.  Keep  lingered  irresolutely.  "  Fred," 
she  begged,  "you — you're  not  going  to  poke 
around  in  the  bushes,  are  you? — just  because 
you  think  I'm  frightened?" 

Her  husband  laughed  at  her.  "I  certainly 
am  not!"  he  said.  "And  you're  not  frightened, 
either.  Go  in.  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  minute." 

But  the  girl  hesitated.  Still  shattering  the 
silence  of  the  night  the  siren  shrieked  relent 
lessly;  it  seemed  to  be  at  their  very  door,  to 
beat  and  buffet  the  window-panes.  The  bride 
shivered  and  held  her  fingers  to  her  ears. 

"Why  don't  they  stop  it!"  she  whispered. 
"Why  don't  they  give  him  a  chance!" 

When  she  had  gone,  Fred  pulled  one  of  the 
wicker  chairs  to  the  edge  of  the  terrace,  and, 
leaning  forward  with  his  chin  in  his  hands,  sat 
staring  down  at  the  lake.  The  moon  had 
cleared  the  tops  of  the  trees,  had  blotted  the 
lawns  with  black,  rigid  squares,  had  disguised 
the  hedges  with  wavering  shadows.  Somewhere 
near  at  hand  a  criminal — a  murderer,  burglar, 
thug — was  at  large,  and  the  voice  of  the  prison 
he  had  tricked  still  bellowed  in  rage,  in  amaze 
ment,  still  clamored  not  only  for  his  person  but 

234 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

perhaps  for  his  life.  The  whole  countryside 
heard  it:  the  farmers  bedding  down  their  cattle 
for  the  night;  the  guests  of  the  Briar  Cliff  Inn, 
dining  under  red  candle  shades;  the  joy  riders 
from  the  city,  racing  their  cars  along  the  Albany 
road.  It  woke  the  echoes  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 
It  crossed  the  Hudson.  The  granite  walls  of 
the  Palisades  flung  it  back  against  the  granite 
walls  of  the  prison.  Whichever  way  the  convict 
turned,  it  hunted  him,  reaching  for  him,  point 
ing  him  out — stirring  in  the  heart  of  each  who 
heard  it  the  lust  of  the  hunter,  which  never  is 
so  cruel  as  when  the  hunted  thing  is  a  man. 

"  Find  him  ! "  shrieked  the  siren.  "  Find  him ! 
He's  there,  behind  your  hedge !  He's  kneeling 
by  the  stone  wall.  That's  he  running  in  the 
moonlight.  That's  he  crawling  through  the  dead 
leaves !  Stop  him !  Drag  him  down !  He's 
mine!  Mine!" 

But  from  within  the  prison,  from  within  the 
gray  walls  that  made  the  home  of  the  siren, 
each  of  twelve  hundred  men  cursed  it  with  his 
soul.  Each,  clinging  to  the  bars  of  his  cell, 
each,  trembling  with  a  fearful  joy,  each,  his 
thumbs  up,  urging  on  with  all  the  strength  of 
his  will  the  hunted,  rat-like  figure  that  stumbled 
panting  through  the  crisp  October  night,  be 
wildered  by  strange  lights,  beset  by  shadows, 
staggering  and  falling,  running  like  a  mad  dog 

235 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

in  circles,  knowing  that  wherever  his  feet  led 
him  the  siren  still  held  him  by  the  heels. 

As  a  rule,  when  Winnie  Keep  was  dressing 
for  dinner,  Fred,  in  the  room  adjoining,  could 
hear  her  unconsciously  and  light-heartedly  sing 
ing  to  herself.  It  was  a  habit  of  hers  that  he 
loved:  But  on  this  night,  although  her  room 
was  directly  above  where  he  sat  upon  the  ter 
race,  he  heard  no  singing.  He  had  been  on  the 
terrace  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Gridley,  the 
aged  butler  who  was  rented  with  the  house, 
and  who  for  twenty  years  had  been  an  inmate 
of  it,  had  brought  the  cocktail  and  taken  away 
the  empty  glass.  And  Keep  had  been  alone 
with  his  thoughts.  They  were  entirely  of  the 
convict.  If  the  man  suddenly  confronted  him 
and  begged  his  aid,  what  would  he  do?  He 
knew  quite  well  what  he  would  do.  He  con 
sidered  even  the  means  by  which  he  would  assist 
the  fugitive  to  a  successful  get-away. 

The  ethics  of  the  question  did  not  concern 
Fred.  He  did  not  weigh  his  duty  to  the  State 
of  New  York,  or  to  society.  One  day,  when  he 
had  visited  "the  institution,"  as  a  somewhat 
sensitive  neighborhood  prefers  to  speak  of  it, 
he  was  told  that  the  chance  of  a  prisoner's 
escaping  from  Sing  Sing  and  not  being  at  once 
retaken  was  one  out  of  six  thousand.  So  with 
Fred  it  was  largely  a  sporting  proposition.  Any 

236 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

man  who  could  beat  a  six-thousand-to-one  shot 
commanded  his  admiration. 

And,  having  settled  his  own  course  of  action, 
he  tried  to  imagine  himself  in  the  place  of  the 
man  who  at  that  very  moment  was  endeavoring 
to  escape.  Were  he  that  man,  he  would  first, 
he  decided,  rid  himself  of  his  tell-tale  clothing. 
But  that  would  leave  him  naked,  and  in  West- 
chester  County  a  naked  man  would  be  quite  as 
conspicuous  as  one  in  the  purple-gray  cloth  of 
the  prison.  How  could  he  obtain  clothes?  He 
might  hold  up  a  passer-by,  and,  if  the  passer-by 
did  not  flee  from  him  or  punch  him  into  insen 
sibility,  he  might  effect  an  exchange  of  garments; 
he  might  by  threats  obtain  them  from  some 
farmer;  he  might  despoil  a  scarecrow. 

But  with  none  of  these  plans  was  Fred  entirely 
satisfied.  The  question  deeply  perplexed  him. 
How  best  could  a  naked  man  clothe  himself? 
And  as  he  sat  pondering  that  point,  from  the 
bushes  a  naked  man  emerged.  He  was  not 
entirely  undraped.  For  around  his  nakedness 
he  had  drawn  a  canvas  awning.  Fred  recog 
nized  it  as  having  been  torn  from  one  of  the 
row-boats  in  the  lake.  But,  except  for  that, 
the  man  was  naked  to  his  heels.  He  was  a 
young  man  of  Fred's  own  age.  His  hair  was 
cut  close,  his  face  smooth-shaven,  and  above  his 
eye  was  a  half-healed  bruise.  He  had  the  sharp, 

237 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

clever,  rat-like  face  of  one  who  lived  by  evil 
knowledge.  Water  dripped  from  him,  and 
either  for  that  reason  or  from  fright  the  young 
man  trembled,  and,  like  one  who  had  been 
running,  breathed  in  short,  hard  gasps. 

Fred  was  surprised  to  find  that  he  was  not 
in  the  least  surprised.  It  was  as  though  he  had 
been  waiting  for  the  man,  as  though  it  had  been 
an  appointment. 

Two  thoughts  alone  concerned  him:  that 
before  he  could  rid  himself  of  his  visitor  his  wife 
might  return  and  take  alarm,  and  that  the  man, 
not  knowing  his  friendly  intentions,  and  in  a 
state  to  commit  murder,  might  rush  him.  But 
the  stranger  made  no  hostile  move,  and  for  a 
moment  in  the  moonlight  the  two  young  men 
eyed  each  other  warily. 

Then,  taking  breath  and  with  a  violent  effort 
to  stop  the  chattering  of  his  teeth,  the  stranger 
launched  into  his  story. 

"I  took  a  bath  in  your  pond,"  he  blurted 
forth,  "  and — and  they  stole  my  clothes !  That's 
why  I'm  like  this  I" 

Fred  was  consumed  with  envy.  In  compari 
son  with  this  ingenious  narrative  how  prosaic 
and  commonplace  became  his  own  plans  to  rid 
himself  of  accusing  garments  and  explain  his 
nakedness.  He  regarded  the  stranger  with 
admiration.  But  even  though  he  applauded 

238 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

the  other's  invention,  he  could  not  let  him 
suppose  that  he  was  deceived  by  it. 

"Isn't  it  rather  a  cold  night  to  take  a  bath?" 
he  said. 

As  though  in  hearty  agreement,  the  naked 
man  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  shivering. 

"It  wasn't  a  bath,"  he  gasped.  "It  was  a 
bet!" 

"A  what!"  exclaimed  Fred.  His  admiration 
was  increasing.  "A  bet?  Then  you  are  not 
alone?" 

"I  am  now — damn  them!"  exclaimed  the 
naked  one.  He  began  again  reluctantly.  "We 
saw  you  from  the  road,  you  and  a  woman, 
sitting  here  in  the  light  from  that  room.  They 
bet  me  I  didn't  dare  strip  and  swim  across  your 
pond  with  you  sitting  so  near.  I  can  see  now 
it  was  framed  up  on  me  from  the  start.  For 
when  I  was  swimming  back  I  saw  them  run  to 
where  I'd  left  my  clothes,  and  then  I  heard 
them  crank  up,  and  when  I  got  to  the  hedge 
the  car  was  gone!" 

Keep  smiled  encouragingly.  "The  car!"  he 
assented.  "So  you've  been  riding  around  in 
the  moonlight?" 

The  other  nodded,  and  was  about  to  speak 
when  there  burst  in  upon  them  the  roaring 
scream  of  the  siren.  The  note  now  was  of 
deeper  rage,  and  came  in  greater  volume. 

239 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

Between  his  clinched  teeth  the  naked  one 
cursed  fiercely,  and  then,  as  though  to  avoid 
further  questions,  burst  into  a  fit  of  coughing. 
Trembling  and  shaking,  he  drew  the  canvas 
cloak  closer  to  him.  But  at  no  time  did  his 
anxious,  prying  eyes  leave  the  eyes  of  Keep. 

'You — you  couldn't  lend  me  a  suit  of  clothes, 
could  you?"  he  stuttered.     "Just  for  to-night? 
I'll  send  them  back.     It's  all  right,"  he  added,  • 
reassuringly.     "I  live  near  here." 

With  a  start  Keep  raised  his  eyes,  and, 
distressed  by  his  look,  the  young  man  continued 
less  confidently. 

"I  don't  blame  you  if  you  don't  believe  it," 
he  stammered,  "seeing  me  like  this;  but  I  do 
live  right  near  here.  Everybody  around  here 
knows  me,  and  I  guess  you've  read  about  me 
in  the  papers,  too.  I'm — that  is,  my  name- 
like  one  about  to  take  a  plunge  he  drew  a  short 
breath,  and  the  rat-like  eyes  regarded  Keep 
watchfully— "my  name  is  Van  Warden.  I'm 
the  one  you  read  about — Harry — I'm  Harry 
Van  Warden!" 

After  a  pause,  slowly  and  reprovingly  Fred 
shook  his  head;  but  his  smile  was  kindly,  even 
regretful,  as  though  he  were  sorry  he  could  not 
longer  enjoy  the  stranger's  confidences. 

"My  boy!"  he  exclaimed,  "you're  more  than 
Van  Warden!  You're  a  genius!"  He  rose 
and  made  a  peremptory  gesture.  "Sorry,"  he 

240 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

said,  "but  this  isn't  safe  for  either  of  us.  Follow 
me,  and  I'll  dress  you  up  and  send  you  where 
you  want  to  go."  He  turned  and  whispered 
over  his  shoulder:  "Some  day  let  me  hear  from 
you.  A  man  with  your  nerve " 

In  alarm  the  naked  one  with  a  gesture  com 
manded  silence. 

The  library  led  to  the  front  hall.  In  this  was 
the  coat-room.  First  making  sure  the  library 
and  hall  were  free  of  servants,  Fred  tiptoed  to 
the  coat-room  and,  opening  the  door,  switched 
on  the  electric  light.  The  naked  man,  leaving 
in  his  wake  a  trail  of  damp  footprints,  followed 
at  his  heels. 

Fred  pointed  at  golf-capes,  sweaters,  great 
coats  hanging  from  hooks,  and  on  the  floor  at 
boots  and  overshoes. 

"Put  on  that  motor-coat  and  the  galoshes," 
he  commanded.  "  They'll  cover  you  in  case 
you  have  to  run  for  it.  I'm  going  to  leave  you 
here  while  I  get  you  some  clothes.  If  any  of 
the  servants  butt  in,  don't  lose  your  head.  Just 
say  you're  waiting  to  see  me — Mr.  Keep.  I 
won't  be  long.  Wait." 

"Wait!"  snorted  the  stranger.  "You  bet  I'll 
wait!' 

As  Fred  closed  the  door  upon  him,  the  naked 
one  was  rubbing  himself  violently  with  Mrs. 
Keep's  yellow  golf-jacket. 

In  his  own  room  Fred  collected  a  suit  of  blue 
241 


THE  NAKED   MAN 

serge,  a  tennis  shirt,  boots,  even  a  tie.  Under 
clothes  he  found  ready  laid  out  for  him,  and  he 
snatched  them  from  the  bed.  From  a  roll  of 
money  in  his  bureau  drawer  he  counted  out 
a  hundred  dollars.  Tactfully  he  slipped  the 
money  in  the  trousers  pocket  of  the  serge  suit, 
and  with  the  bundle  of  clothes  in  his  arms  raced 
downstairs  and  shoved  them  into  the  coat-room. 

"Don't  come  out  until  I  knock,"  he  com 
manded.  "And,"  he  added  in  a  vehement 
whisper,  "don't  come  out  at  all  unless  you  have 
clothes  on !" 

The  stranger  grunted. 

Fred  rang  for  Gridley  and  told  him  to  have 
his  car  brought  around  to  the  door.  He  wanted 
it  to  start  at  once — within  two  minutes.  When 
the  butler  had  departed,  Fred,  by  an  inch,  again 
opened  the  coat-room  door.  The  stranger  had 
draped  himself  in  the  underclothes  and  the  shirt, 
and  at  the  moment  was  carefully  arranging 
the  tie. 

"Hurry  I"  commanded  Keep.  "The  car'II  be 
here  in  a  minute.  Where  shall  I  tell  him  to 
take  you?" 

The  stranger  chuckled  excitedly;  his  confi 
dence  seemed  to  be  returning.  "New  York," 
he  whispered,  "  fast  as  he  can  get  there !  Look 
here,"  he  added  doubtfully,  "there's  a  roll  of 
bills  in  these  clothes." 

242 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

"They're  yours,"  said  Fred. 

The  stranger  exclaimed  vigorously.  ''  You're 
all  right!"  he  whispered.  "I  won't  forget  this, 
or  you  either.  I'll  send  the  money  back  same 
time  I  send  the  clothes." 

"Exactly!"  said  Fred. 

The  wheels  of  the  touring-car  crunched  on 
the  gravel  drive,  and  Fred  slammed  to  the 
door,  and  like  a  sentry  on  guard  paced  before  it. 
After  a  period  which  seemed  to  stretch  over 
many  minutes  there  came  from  the  inside  a 
cautious  knocking.  With  equal  caution  Fred 
opened  the  door  of  the  width  of  a  finger,  and  put 
his  ear  to  the  crack. 

"You  couldn't  find  me  a  button-hook,  could 
you?"  whispered  the  stranger. 

Indignantly  Fred  shut  the  door  and,  walking 
to  the  veranda,  hailed  the  chauffeur.  James, 
the  chauffeur,  was  a  Keepsburg  boy,  and  when 
Keep  had  gone  to  Cambridge  James  had  accom 
panied  him.  Keep  knew  the  boy  could  be 
trusted. 

u  You're  to  take  a  man  to  New  York,"  he  said, 
"or  wherever  he  wants  to  go.  Don't  talk  to 
him.  Don't  ask  any  questions.  So,  if  you  re 
questioned,  you  can  say  you  know  nothing. 
That's  for  your  own  good!" 

The  chauffeur  mechanically  touched  his  cap 
and  started  down  the  steps.  As  he  did  so,  the 

243 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

prison  whistle,  still  unsatisfied,  still  demanding 
its  prey,  shattered  the  silence.  As  though  it 
had  hit  him  a  physical  blow,  the  youth  jumped. 
He  turned  and  lifted  startled,  inquiring  eyes  to 
where  Keep  stood  above  him. 

"I  told  you,"  said  Keep,  "to  ask  no  ques 
tions." 

As  Fred  re-entered  the  hall,  Winnie  Keep  was 
coming  down  the  stairs  toward  him.  She  had 
changed  to  one  of  the  prettiest  evening  gowns  of 
her  trousseau,  and  so  outrageously  lovely  was 
the  combination  of  herself  and  the  gown  that 
her  husband's  excitement  and  anxiety  fell  from 
him,  and  he  was  lost  in  admiration.  But  he 
was  not  for  long  lost.  To  his  horror,  the  door 
of  the  coat-closet  opened  toward  his  wife  and 
out  of  the  closet  the  stranger  emerged.  Winnie, 
not  accustomed  to  seeing  young  men  suddenly 
appear  from  among  the  dust-coats,  uttered  a 
sharp  shriek. 

With  what  he  considered  great  presence  of 
mind,  Fred  swung  upon  the  visitor. 

"Did  you  fix  it?"  he  demanded. 

The  visitor  did  not  heed  him.  In  amazement, 
in  abject  admiration,  his  eyes  were  fastened 
upon  the  beautiful  and  radiant  vision  presented 
by  Winnie  Keep.  But  he  also  still  preserved 
sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  nod  his  head 
dully. 

244 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

"Come,"  commanded  Fred.  "The  car  is 
waiting." 

Still  the  stranger  did  not  move.  As  though 
he  had  never  before  seen  a  woman,  as  though  her 
dazzling  loveliness  held  him  in  a  trance,  he  stood 
still,  gazing,  gaping;  devouring  Winnie  with  his 
eyes.  In  her  turn,  Winnie  beheld  a  strange 
youth  who  looked  like  a  groom  out  of  livery, 
so  overcome  by  her  mere  presence  as  to  be  struck 
motionless  and  inarticulate.  For  protection  she 
moved  in  some  alarm  toward  her  husband. 

The  stranger  gave  a  sudden  jerk  of  his  body 
that  might  have  been  intended  for  a  bow. 
Before  Keep  could  interrupt  him,  like  a  parrot 
reciting  its  lesson,  he  exclaimed  explosively: 

"My  name's  Van  Warden.  I'm  Harry  Van 
Warden." 

He  seemed  as  little  convinced  of  the  truth  of 
his  statement  as  though  he  had  announced  that 
he  was  the  Czar  of  Russia.  It  was  as  though  a 
stage-manager  had  drilled  him  in  the  lines. 

But  upon  Winnie,  as  her  husband  saw  to  his 
dismay,  the  words  produced  an  instant  and  ap 
palling  effect.  She  fairly  radiaced  excitement 
and  delight.  How  her  husband  had  succeeded 
in  capturing  the  social  prize  of  Scarboro  she 
could  not  imagine,  but,  for  doing  so,  she  flashed 
toward  him  a  glance  of  deep  and  grateful 
devotion. 

245 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

Then  she  beamed  upon  the  stranger.  "Won't 
Mr.  Van  Warden  stay  to  dinner?"  she  asked. 

Her  husband  emitted  a  howl.  "He  will 
not!"  he  cried.  "He's  not  that  kind  of  a  Van 
Warden.  He's  a  plumber.  He's  the  man  that 
fixes  the  telephone!" 

He  seized  the  visitor  by  the  sleeve  of  the  long 
motor-coat  and  dragged  him  down  the  steps. 
Reluctantly,  almost  resistingly,  the  visitor  stum 
bled  after  him,  casting  backward  amazed  glances 
at  the  beautiful  lady.  Fred  thrust  him  into 
the  seat  beside  the  chauffeur.  Pointing  at  the 
golf-cap  and  automobile  goggles  which  the 
stranger  was  stupidly  twisting  in  his  hands, 
Fred  whispered  fiercely: 

"Put  those  on!  Cover  your  face!  Don't 
speak !  The  man  knows  what  to  do." 

With  eager  eyes  and  parted  lips  James  the 
chauffeur  was  waiting  for  the  signal.  Fred 
nodded  sharply,  and  the  chauffeur  stooped  to 
throw  in  the  clutch.  But  the  car  did  not 
start.  From  the  hedge  beside  the  driveway, 
directly  in  front  of  the  wheels,  something  on  all 
fours  threw  itself  upon  the  gravel;  something 
in  a  suit  of  purple-gray;  something  torn  and 
bleeding,  smeared  with  sweat  and  dirt;  some 
thing  that  cringed  and  crawled,  that  tried  to 
rise  and  sank  back  upon  its  knees,  lifting  to 
the  glare  of  the  head-lights  the  white  face  and 

246 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

white  hair  of  a  very  old,  old  man.  The  kneeling 
figure  sobbed;  the  sobs  rising  from  far  down  in 
the  pit  of  the  stomach,  wrenching  the  body 
like  waves  of  nausea.  The  man  stretched  his 
arms  toward  them.  From  long  disuse  his  voice 
cracked  and  broke. 

"I'm  done!"  he  sobbed.  "I  can't  go  no 
farther!  I  give  myself  up!" 

Above  the  awful  silence  that  held  the  four 
young  people,  the  prison  siren  shrieked  in  one 
long,  mocking  howl  of  triumph. 

It  was  the  stranger  who  was  the  first  to  act. 
Pushing  past  Fred,  and  slipping  from  his  own 
shoulders  the  long  motor-coat,  he  flung  it  over 
the  suit  of  purple-gray.  The  goggles  he  clapped 
upon  the  old  man's  frightened  eyes,  the  golf- 
cap  he  pulled  down  over  the  white  hair.  With 
one  arm  he  lifted  the  convict,  and  with  the  other 
dragged  and  pushed  him  into  the  seat  beside 
the  chauffeur.  Into  the  hands  of  the  chauffeur 
he  thrust  the  roll  of  bills. 

"Get  him  away!"  he  ordered.  "It's  only 
twelve  miles  to  the  Connecticut  line.  As  soon 
as  you're  across,  buy  him  clothes  and  a  ticket 
to  Boston.  Go  through  White  Plains  to  Green 
wich — and  then  you're  safe!" 

As  though  suddenly  remembering  the  presence 
of  the  owner  of  the  car,  he  swung  upon  Fred. 
"Am  I  right?"  he  demanded. 

247 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

"Of  course !"  roared  Fred.  He  flung  his  arm 
at  the  chauffeur  as  though  throwing  him  into 
space. 

"Get-to-hell-out-of-here!"  he  shouted. 

The  chauffeur,  by  profession  a  criminal,  but 
by  birth  a  human  being,  chuckled  savagely  and 
this  time  threw  in  the  clutch.  With  a  grinding 
of  gravel  the  racing-car  leaped  into  the  night, 
its  ruby  rear  lamp  winking  in  farewell,  its  tiny 
siren  answering  the  great  siren  of  the  prison  in 
jeering  notes  of  joy  and  victory. 

Fred  had  supposed  that  at  the  last  moment  the 
younger  convict  proposed  to  leap  to  the  running- 
board,  but  instead  the  stranger  remained  mo 
tionless. 

Fred  shouted  impotently  after  the  flying  car. 
In  dismay  he  seized  the  stranger  by  the  arm. 

"But  you?"  he  demanded.  "How  are  you 
going  to  get  away?" 

The  stranger  turned  appealingly  to  where 
upon  the  upper  step  stood  Winnie  Keep. 

"I  don't  want  to  get  away,"  he  said.  "I 
was  hoping,  maybe,  you'd  let  me  stay  to  dinner." 

A  terrible  and  icy  chill  crept  down  the  spine 
of  Fred  Keep.  He  moved  so  that  the  light 
from  the  hall  fell  full  upon  the  face  of  the 
stranger. 

"Will  you  kindly  tell  me,"  Fred  demanded, 
"who  the  devil  you  are?" 

248 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

The  stranger  exclaimed  peevishly.  "  I've  been 
telling  you  all  evening,"  he  protested.  "Pm 
Harry  Van  Warden!" 

Gridley,  the  ancient  butler,  appeared  in  the 
open  door. 

"Dinner  is  served,  madam,"  he  said. 

The  stranger  gave  an  exclamation  of  pleasure. 
"Hello,  Gridley!"  he  cried.  "Will  you  please 
tell  Mr.  Keep  who  I  am?  Tell  him,  if  he'll 
ask  me  to  dinner,  I  won't  steal  the  spoons." 

Upon  the  face  of  Gridley  appeared  a  smile  it 
never  had  been  the  privilege  of  Fred  Keep  to 
behold.  The  butler  beamed  upon  the  stranger 
fondly,  proudly,  by  the  right  of  long  acquain 
tanceship,  with  the  affection  of  an  old  friend. 
Still  beaming,  he  bowed  to  Keep. 

"If  Mr.  Harry— Mr.  Van  Warden/'  he  said, 
"is  to  stay  to  dinner,  might  I  suggest,  sir,  he  is 
very  partial  to  the  Paul  Vibert,  '84." 

Fred  Keep  gazed  stupidly  from  his  butler  to 
the  stranger  and  then  at  his  wife.  She  was 
again  radiantly  beautiful  and  smilingly  happy. 

Gridley  coughed  tentatively.  "Shall  I  open 
a  bottle,  sir?"  he  asked. 

Hopelessly  Fred  tossed  his  arms  heavenward. 

"Open  a  case!"  he  roared. 

At  ten  o'clock,  when  they  were  still  at  table 
and  reaching  a  state  of  such  mutual  appreciation 
that  soon  they  would  be  calling  each  other  by 

249 


THE  NAKED  MAN 

their  first  names,  Gridley  brought  in  a  written 
message  he  had  taken  from  the  telephone.  It 
was  a  long-distance  call  from  Yonkers,  sent  by 
James,  the  faithful  chauffeur. 

Fred  read  it  aloud. 

"I  got  that  party  the  articles  he  needed,"  it 
read,  "and  saw  him  safe  on  a  train  to  Boston. 
On  the  way  back  I  got  arrested  for  speeding 
the  car  on  the  way  down.  Please  send  money. 
I  am  in  a  cell  in  Yonkers." 


250 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

BEFORE  he  finally  arrested  him,  "Jimmie" 
Sniffen  had  seen  the  man  with  the  golf-cap,  and 
the  blue  eyes  that  laughed  at  you,  three  times. 
Twice,  unexpectedly,  he  had  come  upon  him  in 
a  wood  road  and  once  on  Round  Hill  where  the 
stranger  was  pretending  to  watch  the  sunset. 
Jimmie  knew  people -do  not  climb  hills  merely 
to  look  at  sunsets,  so  he  was  not  deceived.  He 
guessed  the  man  was  a  German  spy  seeking 
gun  sites,  and  secretly  vowed  to  " stalk5'  him. 
From  that  moment,  had  the  stranger  known  it, 
he  was  as  good  as  dead.  For  a  boy. scout  with 
badges  on  his  sleeve  for  "stalking"  and  "path- 
finding,"  not  to  boast  of  others  for  "gardening" 
and  "cooking,"  can  outwit  any  spy.  Even  had, 
General  Baden-Powell  remained  in  Mafeking 
and  not  invented  the  boy  scout,  Jimmie  Sniffen 
would  have  been  one.  Because,  by  birth  he  was 
a  boy,  and  by  inheritance,  a  scout.  In  West- 
chester  County  the  Sniffens  are  one  of  the 
county  families.  If  it  isn't  a  Sarles,  it's  a 
Sniffen;  and  with  Brundages,  Platts,  and  Jays, 
the  Sniffens  date  back  to  when  the  acres  of  the 
first  Charles  Ferris  ran  from  the  Boston  post 

251 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

road  to  the  coach  road  to  Albany,  and  when 
the  first  Gouverneur  Morris  stood  on  one  of  his 
hills  and  saw  the  Indian  canoes  in  the  Hudson 
and  in  the  Sound  and  rejoiced  that  all  the  land 
between  belonged  to  him. 

If  you  do  not  believe  in  heredity,  the  fact 
that  Jimmie's  great-great-grandfather  was  a 
scout  for  General  Washington  and  hunted  deer, 
and  even  bear,  over  exactly  the  same  hills  where 
Jimmie  hunted  weasles  will  count  for  nothing. 
It  will  not  explain  why  to  Jimmie,  from  Tarry- 
town  to  Port  Chester,  the  hills,  the  roads,  the 
woods,  and  the  cow-paths,  caves,  streams,  and 
springs  hidden  in  the  woods  were  as  familiar 
as  his  own  kitchen  garden,  . 

Nor  explain  why,  when  you  could  not  see  a 
Pease  and  Elliman  "For  Sale"  sign  nailed  to 
a  tree,  Jimmie  could  see  in  the  highest  branches 
a  last  year's  bird's  nest. 

Or  why,  when  he  was  out  alone  playing 
Indians  and  had  sunk  his  scout's  axe  into  a 
fallen  log  and  then  scalped  the  log,  he  felt  that 
once  before  in  those  same  woods  he  had  trailed 
that  same  Indian,  and  with  his  own  tomahawk 
split  open  his  skull.  Sometimes  when  he  knelt 
to  drink  at  a  secret  spring  in  the  forest,  the 
autumn  leaves  would  crackle  and  he  would  raise 
his  eyes  fearing  to  see  a  panther  facing  him. 

"But  there  ain't  no  panthers  in  Westchester," 
252 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

Jimmie  would  reassure  himself.  And  -in  the 
distance  the  roar  of  an  automobile  climbing  a 
hill  with  the  muffler  open  would  seem  to  suggest 
he  was  right.  But  still  Jimmie  remembered 
once  before  he  had  knelt  at  that  same  spring, 
and  that  when  he  raised  his  eyes  he  had  faced  a 
crouching  panther.  "Mebbe  dad  told  me  it 
happened  to  grandpop,"  Jimmie  would  explain, 
"or  I  dreamed  it,  or,  mebbe,  I  read  it  in  a  story 
book." 

The  "German  spy"  mania  attacked  Round 
Hill  after  the  visit  to  the  boy  scouts  of  Clavering 
Gould,  the  war  correspondent.  He  was  spend 
ing  the  week  end  with  "Squire"  Harry  Van 
Vorst,  and  as  young  Van  Vorst,  besides  being  a 
justice  of  the  peace  and  a  Master  of  Beagles 
and  President  of  the  Country  Club,  was  also  a 
local  "councilman"  for  the  Round  Hill  Scouts, 
he  brought  his  guest  to  a  camp-fire  meeting  to 
talk  to  them.  In  deference  to  his  audience, 
Gould  told  them  of  the  boy  scouts  he  had  seen 
in  Belgium  and  of  the  part  they  were  playing 
in  the  great  war.  It  was  his  peroration  that 
made  trouble. 

"And  any  day,"  he  assured  his  audience, 
"this  country  may  be  at  war  with  Germany; 
and  every  one  of  you  boys  will  be  expected  to 
do  his  bit.  You  can  begin  now.  When  the 
Germans  land  it  will  be  near  New  Haven,  or 

253 


THE  BOY   WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

New  Bedford.  They  will  first  capture  the 
munition  works  at  Springfield,  Hartford,  and 
Watervliet  so  as  to  make  sure  of  their  ammuni 
tion,  and  then  they  will  start  for  New  York 
City.  They  will  follow  the  New  Haven  and 
New  York  Central  railroads,  and  march  straight 
through  this  village.  I  haven't  the  least  doubt," 
exclaimed  the  enthusiastic  war  prophet,  "that 
at  this  moment  German  spies  are  as  thick  in 
Westchestcr  as  blackberries.  They  are  here  to 
select  camp  sites  and  gun  positions,  to  find  out 
which  of  these  hills  enfilade  the  others  and  to 
learn  to  what  extent  their  armies  can  live  on 
the  country.  They  are  counting  the  cows,  the 
horses,  the  barns  where  fodder  is  stored;  and 
they  are  marking  down  on  their  maps  the  wells 
and  streams." 

As  though  at  that  moment  a  German  spy 
might  be  crouching  behind  the  door,  Mr.  Gould 
spoke  in  a  whisper.  "Keep  your  eyes  open!" 
he  commanded.  "  Watch  every  stranger.  If  he 
acts  suspiciously,  get  word  quick  to  your  sheriff, 
or  to  Judge  Van  Vorst  here.  Remember  the 
scouts'  motto,  £Be  prepared!' 

That  night  as  the  scouts  walked  home,  behind 
each  wall  and  hayrick  they  saw  spiked  helmets. 

Young  Van  Vorst  was   extremely   annoyed. 

"Next  time  you  talk  to  my  scouts,"  he  de 
clared,  "you'll  talk  on  'Votes  for  Women/ 

254 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

After  what  you  said  to-night  every  real  estate 
agent  who  dares  open  a  map  will  be  arrested. 
We're  not  trying  to  drive  people  away  from 
Westchester,  we're  trying  to  sell  them  building 
sites." 

'You  are  not !"  retorted  his  friend,  "you  own 
half  the  county  now,  and  you're  trying  to  buy 
the  other  half." 

"I'm  a  justice  of  the  peace,"  explained  Van 
Vorst.  "I  don't  know  why  I  am,  except  that 
they  wished  it  on  me.  All  I  get  out  of  it  is 
trouble.  The  Italians  make  charges  against  my 
best  friends  for  overspeeding  and  I  have  to  fine 
them,  and  my  best  friends  bring  charges  against 
the  Italians  for  poaching,  and  when  I  fine  the 
Italians,  they  send  me  Black  Hand  letters. 
And  now  every  day  I'll  be  asked  to  issue  a 
warrant  for  a  German  spy  wrho  is  selecting  gun 
sites.  And  he  will  turn  out  to  be  a  millionaire 
wfiQ  is  tired  of  living  at  the  Ritz-Carlton  and 
wants  to  'own  his  own  home'  and  his  own  golf- 
links.  And  he'll  be  so  hot  at  being  arrested 
that  he'll  take  his  millions  to  Long  Island  and 
try  to  break  into  the  Piping  Rock  Club.  And, 
it  will  be  your  fault!" 

The  young  justice  of  the  peace  was  right. 
At  least  so  far  as  Jimmie  Sniffen  was  concerned, 
the  words  of  the  war  prophet  had  filled  one 
mind  with  unrest.  In  the  past  Jimmie's  idea 

255 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

of  a  holiday  had  been  to  spend  it  scouting  in 
the  woods.  In  this  pleasure  he  was  selfish. 
He  did  not  want  companions  who  talked,  and 
trampled  upon  the  dead  leaves  so  that  they 
frightened  the  wild  animals  and  gave  the 
Indians  warning.  Jimmie  liked  to  pretend. 
He  liked  to  fill  the  woods  with  wary  and  hostile 
adversaries.  It  was  a  game  of  his  own  invent 
ing.  If  he  crept  to  the  top  of  a  hill  and  on 
peering  over  it,  surprised  a  fat  woodchuck,  he 
pretended  the  woodchuck  was  a  bear,  weighing 
two  hundred  pounds;  if,  himself  unobserved, 
he  could  lie  and  watch,  off  its  guard,  a  rabbit, 
squirrel,  or,  most  difficult  of  all,  a  crow,  it  be 
came  a  deer  and  that  night  at  supper  Jimmie 
made  believe  he  was  eating  venison.  Sometimes 
he  was  a  scout  of  the  Continental  Army  and 
carried  despatches  to  General  Washington.  The 
rules  of  that  game  were  that  if  any  man  plough 
ing  in  the  fields,  or  cutting  trees  in  the  woods, 
or  even  approaching  along  the  same  road,  saw 
Jimmie  before  Jimmie  saw  him,  Jimmie  was 
taken  prisoner,  and  before  sunrise  was  shot  as  a 
spy.  He  was  seldom  shot.  Or  else  why  on  his 
sleeve  was  the  badge  for  "stalking."  But 
always  to  have  to  make  believe  became  monot 
onous.  Even  "dry  shopping"  along  the  Rue 
de  la  Paix  when  you  pretend  you  can  have  any 
thing  you  see  in  any  window,  leaves  one  just 

256 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

as  rich,  but  unsatisfied.  So  the  advice  of  the 
war  correspondent  to  seek  out  German  spies 
came  to  Jimmie  like  a  day  at  the  circus,  like  a 
week  at  the  Danbury  Fair.  It  not  only  was  a 
call  to  arms,  to  protect  his  flag  and  home,  but 
a  chance  to  play  in  earnest  the  game  in  which 
he  most  delighted.  No  longer  need  he  pretend. 
No  longer  need  he  waste  his  energies  in  watch 
ing,  unobserved,  a  greedy  rabbit  rob  a  carrot 
field.  The  game  now  was  his  fellow-man  and 
his  enemy;  not  only  his  enemy,  but  the  enemy 
of  his  country. 

In  his  first  effort  Jimmie  was  not  entirely  suc 
cessful.  The  man  looked  the  part  perfectly;  he 
wore  an  auburn  beard,  disguising  spectacles,  and 
he  carried  a  suspicious  knapsack.  But  he 
turned  out  to  be  a  professor  from  the  Museum 
of  Natural  History,  who  wanted  to  dig  for 
Indian  arrow-heads.  And  when  Jimmie  threat 
ened  to  arrest  him,  the  indignant  gentleman 
arrested  Jimmie.  Jimmie  escaped  only  by  lead 
ing  the  professor  to  a  secret  cave  of  his  own, 
though  on  some  one  else's  property,  where  one 
not  only  could  dig  for  arrow-heads,  but  find 
them.  The  professor  was  delighted,  but  for 
Jimmie  it  was  a  great  disappointment.  The 
week  following  Jimmie  was  again  disappointed. 

On  the  bank  of  the  Kensico  Reservoir,  he  came 
upon  a  man  who  was  acting  in  a  mysterious  and 

257 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

suspicious  manner.  He  was  making  notes  in  a 
book,  and  his  runabout  which  he  had  concealed 
in  a  wood  road  was  stuffed  with  blue-prints.  It 
did  not  take  Jimmie  long  to  guess  his  purpose. 
He  was  planning  to  blow  up  the  Kensico  dam, 
and  cut  off  the  water  supply  of  New  York  City. 
Seven  millions  of  people  without  water !  With 
out  firing  a  shot,  New  York  must  surrender ! 
At  the  thought  Jimmie  shuddered,  and  at  the 
risk  of  his  life  by  clinging  to  the  tail  of  a  motor 
truck,  he  followed  the  runabout  into  White 
Plains.  But  there  it  developed  the  mysterious 
stranger,  so  far  from  wishing  to  destroy  the 
Kensico  dam,  was  the  State  Engineer  who  had 
built  it,  and,  also,  a  large  part  of  the  Panama 
Canal.  Nor  in  his  third  effort  was  Jimmie 
more  successful.  From  the  heights  of  Pound 
Ridge  he  discovered  on  a  hilltop  below  him  a 
man  working  alone  upon  a  basin  of  concrete. 
The  man  was  a  German-American,  and  already 
on  Jimmie's  list  of  "  suspects."  That  for  the 
use  of  the  German  artillery  he  was  preparing  a 
concrete  bed  for  a  siege  gun  was  only  too  evident. 
But  closer  investigation  proved  that  the  con 
crete  was  only  two  inches  thick.  And  the  hy 
phenated  one  explained  that  the  basin  was  built 
over  a  spring,  in  the  waters  of  which  he  planned 
to  erect  a  fountain  and  raise  gold  fish.  It  was 
a  bitter  blow.  Jimmie  became  discouraged. 

258 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

Meeting  Judge  Van  Vorst  one  day  in  the  road 
he  told  him  his  troubles.  The  young  judge 
proved  unsympathetic.  "My  advice  to  you, 
Jimmie,"  he  said,  "is  to  go  slow.  Accusing 
everybody  of  espionage  is  a  very  serious  matter. 
If  you  call  a  man  a  spy,  it's  sometimes  hard 
for  him  to  disprove  it;  and  the  name  sticks. 
So,  go  slow — very*  slow.  Before  you  arrest  any 
more  people,  come  to  me  first  for  a  warrant." 

So,  the  next  time  Jimmie  proceeded  with 
caution. 

Besides  being  a  farmer  in  a  small  way,  Jim- 
mie's  father  was  a  handy  man  with  tools.  He 
had  no  union  card,  but,  in  laying  shingles  along 
a  blue  chalk  line,  few  were  as  expert.  It  was 
August,  there  was  no  school,  and  Jimmie  was 
carrying  a  dinner-pail  to  where  his  father  was 
at  work  on  a  new  barn.  He  made  a  cross-cut 
through  the  woods,  and  came  upon  the  young 
man  in  the  golf-cap.  The  strang^er  nodded, 
and  his  eyes,  which  seemed  to  be  always  laugh 
ing,  smiled  pleasantly.  But  he  was  deeply 
tanned,  and,  from  the  waist  up,  held  himself 
like  a  soldier,  so,  at  once,  Jimmie  mistrusted 
him.  Early  the  next  morning  Jimmie  met  him 
again.  It  had  not  been  raining,  but  the  clothes 
of  the  young  man  were  damp.  Jimmie  guessed 
that  while  the  dew  was  still  on  the  leaves  the 
young  man  had  been  forcing  his  way  through 

259 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

underbrush.  The  stranger  must  have  remem 
bered  Jimmie,  for  he  laughed  and  exclaimed: 

"Ah,  my  friend  with  the  dinner-pail!  It's 
luck  you  haven't  got  it  now,  or  I'd  hold  you  up. 
I'm  starving!" 

Jimmie  smiled  in  sympathy.  "It's  early  to 
be  hungry,"  said  Jimmie;  "when  did  you  have 
your  breakfast?" 

"I  didn't,"  laughed  the  young  man.  "I 
went  out  to  walk  up  an  appetite,  and  I  lost 
myself.  But,  I  haven't  lost  my  appetite.  Which 
is  the  shortest  way  back  to  Bedford?" 

"The  first  road  to  your  right,"  said  Jimmie. 

"Is  it  far?"  asked  the  stranger  anxiously. 
That  he  was  very  hungry  was  evident. 

"It's  a  half-hour's  walk,"  said  Jimmie. 

"  If  I  live  that  long,"  corrected  the  young  man; 
and  stepped  out  briskly. 

Jimmie  knew  that  within  a  hundred  yards  a 
turn  in  the  road  would  shut  him  from  sight. 
So,  he  gave  the  stranger  time  to  walk  that  dis 
tance,  and,  then,  diving  into  the  wood  that 
lined  the  road,  "stalked"  him.  From  behind 
a  tree  he  saw  the  stranger  turn  and  look  back, 
and  seeing  no  one  in  the  road  behind  him,  also 
leave  it  and  plunge  into  the  woods. 

He  had  not  turned  toward  Bedford;  he  had 
turned  to  the  left.  Like  a  runner  stealing  bases, 
Jimmie  slipped  from  tree  to  tree.  Ahead  of 

260 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

hini  he  heard  the  stranger  trampling  upon  dead 
twigs,  moving  rapidly  as  one  who  knew  his  way. 
At  times  through  the  branches  Jimmie  could 
see  the  broad  shoulders  of  the  stranger,  and 
again  could  follow  his  progress  only  by  the  noise 
of  the  crackling  twigs.  When  the  noises  ceased, 
Jimmie  guessed  the  stranger  had  reached  the 
wood  road,  grass-grown  and  moss-covered,  that 
led  to  Middle  Patent.  So,  he  ran  at  right  angles 
until  he  also  reached  it,  and  as  now  he  was  close 
to  where  it  entered  the  main  road,  he  approached 
warily.  But,  he  was  too  late.  There  was  a 
sound  like  the  whir  of  a  rising  partridge,  and 
ahead  of  him  from  where  it  had  been  hidden, 
a  gray  touring-car  leaped  into  the  highway. 
The  stranger  was  at  the  wheel.  Throwing  be 
hind  it  a  cloud  of  dust,  the  car  raced  toward 
Greenwich.  Jimmie  had  time  to  note  only 
that  it  bore  a  Connecticut  State  license;  that  in 
the  wheel-ruts  the  tires  printed  little  V's,  like 
arrow-heads. 

For  a  week  Jimmie  saw  nothing  of  the  spy, 
but  for  many  hot  and  dusty  miles  he  stalked 
arrow-heads.  They  lured  him  north,  they  lured 
him  south,  they  were  stamped  in  soft  asphalt, 
in  mud,  dust,  and  fresh-spread  tarvia.  Wher 
ever  Jimmie  walked,  arrow-heads  ran  before. 
In  his  sleep  as  in  his  copy-book,  he  saw  endless 
chains  of  V's.  But  not  once  could  he  catch  up 

261 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

with  the  wheels  that  printed  them.  A  week 
later,  just  at  sunset  as  he  passed  below  Round 
Hill,  he  saw  the  stranger  on  top  of  it.  On  the 
skyline,  in  silhouette  against  the  sinking  sun, 
he  was  as  conspicuous  as  a  flagstaff.  But  to 
approach  him  was  impossible.  For  acres  Round 
Hill  offered  no  other  cover  than  stubble.  It  was 
as  bald  as  a  skull.  Until  the  stranger  chose  to 
descend,  Jimmie  must  wait.  And  the  stranger 
was  in  no  haste.  The  sun  sank  and  from  the 
west  Jimmie  saw  him  turn  his  face  east  toward 
the  Sound.  A  storm  was  gathering,  drops  of 
rain  began  to  splash  and  as  the  sky  grew  black 
the  figure  on  the  hilltop  faded  into  the  darkness. 
And  then,  at  the  very  spot  where  Jimmie  had 
last  seen  it,  there  suddenly  flared  two  tiny 
flashes  of  fire.  Jimmie  leaped  from  cover.  It 
was  no  longer  to  be  endured.  The  spy  was 
signalling.  The  time  for  caution  had  passed, 
now  was  the  time  to  act.  Jimmie  raced  to  the 
top  of  the  hill,  and  found  it  empty.  He  plunged 
down  it,  vaulted  a  stone  wall,  forced  his  way 
through  a  tangle  of  saplings,  and  held  his 
breath  to  listen.  Just  beyond  him,  over  a 
jumble  of  rocks,  a  hidden  stream  was  tripping 
and  tumbling.  Joyfully,  it  laughed  and  gurgled. 
Jimmie  turned  hot.  It  sounded  as  though  from 
the  darkness  the  spy  mocked  him.  Jimmie 
shook  his  fist  at  the  enshrouding  darkness. 

262 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

Above  the  tumult  of  the  coming  storm  and  the 
tossing  tree-tops,  he  raised  his  voice. 

"You  wait !"  he  shouted.  "I'll  get  you  yet ! 
Next  time,  I'll  bring  a  gun." 

Next  time,  was  the  next  morning.  There  had 
been  a  hawk  hovering  over  the  chicken  yard, 
and  Jimmie  used  that  fact  to  explain  his  borrow 
ing  the  family  shotgun.  He  loaded  it  with 
buckshot,  and,  in  the  pocket  of  his  shirt  but 
toned  his  license  to  "hunt,  pursue  and  kill,  to 
take  with  traps  or  other  devices." 

He  remembered  that  Judge  Van  Vorst  had 
warned  him,  before  he  arrested  more  spies,  to 
come  to  him  for  a  warrant.  But  with  an  im 
patient  shake  of  the  head  Jimmie  tossed  the 
recollection  from  him.  After  what  he  had  seen 
he  could  not  possibly  be  again  mistaken.  He 
did  not  need  a  warrant.  What  he  had  seen  was 
his  warrant — plus  the  shotgun. 

As  a  "pathfinder"  should,  he  planned  to  take 
up  the  trail  where  he  had  lost  it,  but,  before  he 
reached  Round  Hill,  he  found  a  warmer  trail. 
Before  him,  stamped  clearly  in  the  road  still 
damp  from  the  rain  of  the  night  before,  two 
lines  of  little  arrow-heads  pointed  the  way. 
They  were  so  fresh  that  at  each  twist  in  the 
road,  lest  the  car  should  be  just  beyond  him, 
Jimmie  slackened  his  steps.  After  half  a  mile 
the  scent  grew  hot.  The  tracks  were  deeper, 

263 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

the  arrow-heads  more  clearly  cut,  and  Jimmie 
broke  into  a  run.  Then,  the  arrow-heads  swung 
suddenly  to  the  right,  and  in  a  clearing  at  the 
edge  of  a  wood,  were  lost.  But  the  tires  had 
pressed  deep  into  the  grass,  and  just  inside  the 
wood,  he  found  the  car.  It  was  empty.  Jim 
mie  was  drawn  two  ways.  Should  he  seek  the 
spy  on  the  nearest  hilltop,  or,  until  the  owner 
returned,  wait  by  the  car.  Between  lying  in 
ambush  and  action,  Jimmie  preferred  action. 
But,  he  did  not  climb  the  hill  nearest  the  car; 
he  climbed  the  hill  that  overlooked  that  hill. 

Flat  on  the  ground,  hidden  in  the  golden-rod, 
he  lay  motionless.  Before  him,  for  fifteen  miles 
stretched  hills  and  tiny  valleys.  Six  miles 
away  to  his  right  rose  the  stone  steeple,  and  the 
red  roofs  of  Greenwich.  Directly  before  him 
were  no  signs  of  habitation,  only  green  forests, 
green  fields,  gray  stone  walls,  and,  where  a  road 
ran  up-hill,  a  splash  of  white,  that  quivered  in 
the  heat.  The  storm  of  the  night  before  had 
washed  the  air.  Each  leaf  stood  by  itself. 
Nothing  stirred;  and  in  the  glare  of  the  August 
sun  every  detail  of  the  landscape  was  as  dis 
tinct  as  those  in  a  colored  photograph;  and  as 
still. 

In  his  excitement  the  scout  was  trembling. 

"If  he  moves,"  he  sighed  happily,  "I've  got 
him!" 

264 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

Opposite,  across  a  little  valley  was  the  hill 
at  the  base  of  which  he  had  found  the  car.  The 
slope  toward  him  was  bare,  but  the  top  was 
crowned  with  a  thick  wood;  and  along  its  crest, 
as  though  establishing  an  ancient  boundary, 
ran  a  stone  wall,  moss-covered  and  wrapped  in 
poison-ivy.  In  places,  the  branches  of  the 
trees,  reaching  out  to  the  sun,  overhung  the 
wrall  and  hid  it  in  black  shadows.  Jimmie 
divided  the  hill  into  sectors.  He  began  at  the 
right,  and  slowly  followed  the  wall.  With  his 
eyes  he  took  it  apart,  stone  by  stone.  Had  a 
chipmunk  raised  his  head,  Jimmie  would  have 
seen  him.  So,  when  from  the  stone  wall,  like 
the  reflection  of  the  sun  upon  a  window-pane, 
something  flashed,  Jimmie  knew  he  had  found 
his  spy.  A  pair  of  binoculars  had  betrayed 
him.  Jimmie  now  saw  him  clearly.  He  sat 
on  the  ground  at  the  top  of  the  hill  opposite, 
in  the  deep  shadow  of  an  oak,  his  back  against 
the  stone  wall.  With  the  binoculars  to  his  eyes 
he  had  leaned  too  far  forward,  and  upon  the 
glass  the  sun  had  flashed  a  warning. 

Jimmie  appreciated  that  his  attack  must  be 
made  from  the  rear.  Backward,  like  a  crab  he 
wriggled  free  of  the  golden-rod,  and  hidden  by 
the  contour  of  the  hill,  raced  down  it  and  into 
the  woods  on  the  hill  opposite.  When  he  came 
to  within  twenty  feet  of  the  oak  beneath  which 

265 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

he  had  seen  the  stranger,  he  stood  erect,  and 
as  though  avoiding  a  live  wire,  stepped  on  tip 
toe  to  the  wall.  The  stranger  still  sat  against 
it.  The  binoculars  hung  from  a  cord  around 
his  neck.  Across  his  knees  was  spread  a  map. 
He  was  marking  it  with  a  pencil,  and  as  he 
worked,  he  hummed  a  tune. 

Jimmie  knelt,  and  resting  the  gun  on  the  top 
of  the  wall,  covered  him. 

" Throw  up  your  hands!"  he  commanded. 

The  stranger  did  not  start.  Except  that  he 
raised  his  eyes  he  gave  no  sign  that  he  had 
heard.  His  eyes  stared  across  the  little  sun- 
filled  valley.  They  were  half  closed  as  though 
in  study,  as  though  perplexed  by  some  deep  and 
intricate  problem.  They  appeared  to  see  be 
yond  the  sun-filled  valley  some  place  of  greater 
moment,  some  place  far  distant. 

Then  the  eyes  smiled,  and  slowly,  as  though 
his  neck  were  stiff,  but  still  smiling,  the  stranger 
turned  his  head.  When  he  saw  the  boy,  his 
smile  was  swept  away  in  waves  of  surprise, 
amazement,  and  disbelief.  These  were  followed 
instantly  by  an  expression  of  the  most  acute 
alarm.  "Don't  point  that  thing  at  me!" 
shouted  the  stranger.  "Is  it  loaded?"  With 
his  cheek  pressed  to  the  stock  and  his  eye 
squinted  down  the  length  of  the  brown  barrel, 
Jimmie  nodded.  The  stranger  flung  up  his 

266 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

open  palms.  They  accented  his  expression  of 
amazed  incredulity.  He  seemed  to  be  ex 
claiming,  "Can  such  things  be?" 

"Get  up!"  commanded  Jimmie. 

With  alacrity  the  stranger  rose. 

"Walk  over  there,"  ordered  the  scout. 
'  "Walk  backward.  Stop !  Take  off  those  field- 
glasses  and  throw  them  to  me."  Without  re 
moving  his  eyes  from  the  gun  the  stranger  lifted 
the  binoculars  from  his  neck  and  tossed  them 
to  the  stone  wall.  "See  here!"  he  pleaded,  "if 
you'll  only  point  that  damned  blunderbuss  the 
other  way,  you  can  have  the  glasses,  and  my 
watch,  and  clothes,  and  all  my  money;  only 
don't- 

Jimmie  flushed  crimson.  "You  can't  bribe 
me,"  he  growled.  At  least,  he  tried  to  growl, 
but  because  his  voice  was  changing,  or  because 
he  was  excited  the  growl  ended  in  a  high  squeak. 
With  mortification,  Jimmie  flushed  a  deeper 
crimson.  But  the  stranger  was  not  amused. 
At  Jimmie's  words  he  seemed  rather  the  more 
amazed. 

"I'm  not  trying  to  bribe  you,"  he  protested. 
"If  you  don't  want  anything,  why  are  you  hold 
ing  me  up?" 

"I'm  not,"  returned  Jimmie,  "I'm  arresting 
you!" 

The  stranger  laughed  with  relief.      Again  his 

267 


THE   BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

eyes  smiled.  "Oh,"  he  cried,  "I  see!  Have  I 
been  trespassing?" 

With  a  glance  Jimmie  measured  the  distance 
between  himself  and  the  stranger.  Reassured, 
he  lifted  one  leg  after  the  other  over  the  wall. 
"If  you  try  to  rush  me,"  he  warned,  "I'll  shoot 
you  full  of  buckshot." 

The  stranger  took  a  hasty  step  backward. 
"Don't  worry  about  that,"  he  exclaimed.  "FII 
not  rush  you.  Why  am  I  arrested?" 

Hugging  the  shotgun  with  his  left  arm,  Jim 
mie  stopped  and  lifted  the  binoculars.  He  gave 
them  a  swift  glance,  slung  them  over  his  shoul 
der,  and  again  clutched  his  weapon.  His  ex 
pression  was  now  stern  and  menacing. 

"The  name  on  them"  he  accused,  "is  'Weiss, 
Berlin.'  Is  that  your  name?"  The  stranger 
smiled,  but  corrected  himself,  and  replied 
gravely,  "  That's  the  name  of  the  firm  that 
makes  them." 

Jimmie  exclaimed  in  triumph.  "Hah!"  he 
cried,  "made  in  Germany!" 

The  stranger  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said.  "Where 
would  a  Weiss  glass  be  made?"  With  polite  in 
sistence  he  repeated,  "Would  you  mind  telling 
me  why  I  am  arrested,  and  who  you  might 
happen  to  be?" 

Jimmie  did  not  answer.  Again  he  stooped 
and  picked  up  the  map,  and  as  he  did  so,  for 

268 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

the  first  time  the  face  of  the  stranger  showed 
that  he  was  annoyed.  Jimmie  was  not  at  home 
with  maps.  They  told  him  nothing.  But  the 
penciled  notes  on  this  one  made  easy  reading. 
At  his  first  glance  he  saw,  "Correct  range,  1,800 
yards";  "this  stream  not  fordable";  "slope  of 
hill  15  degrees  inaccessible  for  artillery."  "Wire 
entanglements  here";  "forage  for  five  squad 


rons." 


Jimmie's  eyes  flashed.  He  shoved  the  map 
inside  his  shirt,  and  with  the  gun  motioned 
toward  the  base  of  the  hill.  "Keep  forty  feet 
ahead  of  me,"  he  commanded,  "and  walk  to 
your  car."  The  stranger  did  not  seem  to  hear 
him.  He  spoke  with  irritation. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "I'll  have  to  explain 
to  you  about  that  map." 

"Not  to  me,  you  won't,"  declared  his  cap 
tor.  "You're  going  to  drive  straight  to  Judge 
Van  Vorst's,  and  explain  to  him!" 

The  stranger  tossed  his  arms  even  higher. 
" Thank  God!"  he  exclaimed  gratefully. 

With  his  prisoner  Jimmie  encountered  no  fur 
ther  trouble.  He  made  a  willing  captive.  And 
if  in  covering  the  five  miles  to  Judge  Van  Vorst's 
he  exceeded  the  speed  limit,  the  fact  that  from 
the  rear  seat  Jimmie  held  the  shotgun  against 
the  base  of  his  skull  was  an  extenuating  cir 
cumstance. 

They  arrived  in  the  nick  of  time.  In  his  own 
269 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

car  young  Van  Vorst  and  a  bag  of  golf  clubs 
were  just  drawing  away  from  the  house.  Seeing 
the  car  climbing  the  steep  driveway  that  for  a 
half-mile  led  from  his  lodge  to  his  front  door, 
and  seeing  Jimmie  standing  in  the  tonneau 
brandishing  a  gun,  the  Judge  hastily  descended. 
The  sight  of  the  spy  hunter  filled  him  with  mis 
giving,  but  the  sight  of  him  gave  Jimmie  sweet 
relief.  Arresting  German  spies  for  a  small  boy 
is  no  easy  task.  For  Jimmie  the  strain  was 
great.  And  now  that  he  knew  he  had  success 
fully  delivered  him  into  the  hands  of  the  law, 
Jimmie's  heart  rose  with  happiness.  The  added 
presence  of  a  butler  of  magnificent  bearing  and 
of  an  athletic  looking  chauffeur  increased  his 
sense  of  security.  Their  presence  seemed  to 
afford  a  feeling  of  security  to  the  prisoner  also. 
As  he  brought  the  car  to  a  halt,  he  breathed  a 
sigh.  It  was  a  sigh  of  deep  relief. 

Jimmie  fell  from  the  tonneau.  In  concealing 
his  sense  of  triumph,  he  was  not  entirely  suc 
cessful. 

"I  got  him!"  he  cried.  "I  didn't  make  no 
mistake  about  this  one  !" 

"What  one?"  demanded  Van  Vorst. 

Jimmie  pointed  dramatically  at  his  prisoner. 
With  an  anxious  expression  the  stranger  was 
tenderly  fingering  the  back  of  his  head.  He 
seemed  to  wish  to  assure  himself  that  it  was 
still  there. 

270 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

"  That  one !"  cried  Jimmie.  "He's  a  German 
spy!" 

The  patience  of  Judge  Van  Vorst  fell  from 
him.  In  his  exclamation  was  indignation,  anger, 
reproach. 

"Jimmie !"  he  cried. 

Jimmie  thrust  into  his  hand  the  map.  It 
was  his  "Exhibit  A."  "Look  what  he's  wrote," 
commanded  the  scout.  "  It's  all  military  words. 
And  these  are  his  glasses.  I  took  'em  off  him. 
They're  made  in  Germany!  I  been  stalking 
him  for  a  week.  He's  a  spy !" 

When  Jimmie  thrust  the  map  before  his  face, 
Van  Vorst  had  glanced  at  it.  Then  he  regarded 
it  more  closely.  As  he  raised  his  eyes  they 
showed  that  he  was  puzzled. 

But  he  greeted  the  prisoner  politely. 

"I'm  extremely  sorry  you've  been  annoyed," 
he  said.  "I'm  only  glad  it's  no  worse.  He 
might  have  shot  you.  He's  mad  over  the  idea 
that  every  stranger  he  sees— 

The  prisoner  quickly  interrupted. 

"Please!"  he  begged,  "Don't  blame  the  boy. 
He  behaved  extremely  well.  Might  I  speak 
with  you — alone?"  he  asked. 

Judge  Van  Vorst  led  the  way  across  the  ter 
race,  and  to  the  smoking-room,  that  served  also 
as  his  office,  and  closed  the  door.  The  stranger 
walked  directly  to  the  mantelpiece  and  put  his 
finger  on  a  gold  cup. 

271 


THE   BOY    WHO   CRIED   WOLF 

"I  saw  your  mare  win  that  at  Belmont  Park," 
he  said.  "She  must  have  been  a  great  loss  to 

you?" 

"She  was,"  said  Van  Vorst.  "The  week  be 
fore  she  broke  her  back,  I  refused  three  thousand 
for  her.  Will  you  have  a  cigarette?" 

The  stranger  waved  aside  the  cigarettes. 

"I  brought  you  inside,"  he  said,  "because  I 
didn't  want  your  servants  to  hear;  and  because 
I  don't  want  to  hurt  that  boy's  feelings.  He's 
a  fine  boy;  and  he's  a  damned  clever  scout.  I 
knew  he  was  following  me  and  I  threw  him  off 
twice,  but  to-day  he  caught  me  fair.  If  I 
really  had  been  a  German  spy,  I  couldn't  have 
got  away  from  him.  And  I  want  him  to  think 
he  has  captured  a  German  spy.  Because  he  de 
serves  just  as  much  credit  as  though  he  had, 
and  because  it's  best  he  shouldn't  know  whom 
he  did  capture." 

Van  Vorst  pointed  to  the  map.  "My  bet  is," 
he  said,  "that  you're  an  officer  of  the  State 
militia,  taking  notes  for  the  fall  manoeuvres. 
Am  I  right?" 

The  stranger  smiled  in  approval,  but  shook 
his  head. 

"You're  warm,"  he  said,  "but  it's  more 
serious  than  manoeuvres.  It's  the  Real  Thing." 
From  his  pocketbook  he  took  a  visiting  card  and 
laid  it  on  the  table.  "I'm  'Sherry'  McCoy," 

272 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

he  said,  "Captain  of  Artillery  in  the  United 
States  Army."  He  nodded  to  the  hand  tele 
phone  on  the  table. 

"You  can  call  up  Governor's  Island  and  get 
General  Wood  or  his  aide,  Captain  Dorey,  on 
the  phone.  They  sent  me  here.  Ask  them. 
I'm  not  picking  out  gun  sites  for  the  Germans; 
I'm  picking  out  positions  of  defense  for  Ameri 
cans  when  the  Germans  come!" 

Van  Vorst  laughed  derisively. 

"My  word!"  he  exclaimed.  "You're  as  bad 
as  Jimmie !" 

Captain  McCoy  regarded  him  with  disfavor. 

"And  you,  sir,"  he  retorted,  "are  as  bad  as 
ninety  million  other  Americans.  You  won't 
believe!  When  the  Germans  are  shelling  this 
hill,  when  they're  taking  your  hunters  to  pull 
their  cook-wagons,  maybe,  you'll  believe  then." 

"Are  you  serious?"  demanded  Van  Vorst. 
"And  you  an  army  officer?" 

"That's  why  I  am  serious,"  returned  McCoy. 
"WE  know.  But  when  we  try  to  prepare  for 
what  is  coming,  we  must  do  it  secretly — in 
underhand  ways,  for  fear  the  newspapers  will 
get  hold  of  it  and  ridicule  us,  and  accuse  us  of 
trying  to  drag  the  country  into  war.  That's 
why  we  have  to  prepare  under  cover.  That's 
why  I've  had  to  skulk  around  these  hills  like  a 
chicken  thief.  And,"  he  added  sharply,  "that's 

273 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

why  that  boy  must  not  know  who  I  am.  If  he 
does,  the  General  Staff  will  get  a  calling  down 
at  Washington,  and  I'll  have  my  ears  boxed." 

Van  Vorst  moved  to  the  door. 

"He  will  never  learn  the  truth  from  me,"  he 
said.  "For  I  will  tell  him  you  are  to  be  shot 
at  sunrise." 

"Good!"  laughed  the  Captain.  "And  tell 
me  his  name.  If  ever  we  fight  over  Westchester 
County,  I  want  that  lad  for  my  chief  of 
scouts.  And  give  him  this.  Tell  him  to  buy 
a  new  scout  uniform.  Tell  him  it  comes  from 
you." 

But  no  money  could  reconcile  Jimmie  to  the 
sentence  imposed  upon  his  captive.  He  re 
ceived  the  news  with  a  howl  of  anguish.  u  You 
mustn't,"  he  begged;  "I  never  knowed  you'd 
shoot  him !  I  wouldn't  have  caught  him,  if  I'd 
knowed  that.  I  couldn't  sleep  if  I  thought  he 
was  going  to  be  shot  at  sunrise."  At  the  pros 
pect  of  unending  nightmares  Jimmie's  voice 
shook  with  terror.  "Make  it  for  twenty  years," 
he  begged.  "Make  it  for  ten,"  he  coaxed, 
"but,  please,  promise  you  won't  shoot  him." 

When  Van  Vorst  returned  to  Captain  Mc 
Coy,  he  was  smiling,  and  the  butler  who  fol 
lowed,  bearing  a  tray  and  tinkling  glasses,  was 
trying  not  to  smile. 

"I  gave  Jimmie  your  ten  dollars,"  said  Van 
274 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

Vorst,  "and  made  it  twenty,  and  he  has  gone 
home.  You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  he  begged 
me  to  spare  your  life,  and  that  your  sentence 
has  been  commuted  to  twenty  years  in  a  for 
tress.  I  drink  to  your  good  fortune." 

"No!"  protested  Captain  McCoy,  "We  will 
drink  to  Jimmie !" 

When  Captain  McCoy  had  driven  away,  and 
his  own  car  and  the  golf  clubs  had  again  been 
brought  to  the  steps,  Judge  Van  Vorst  once 
more  attempted  to  depart;  but  he  was  again 
delayed. 

Other  visitors  were  arriving. 

Up  the  driveway  a  touring-car  approached, 
and  though  it  limped  on  a  flat  tire,  it  approached 
at  reckless  speed.  The  two  men  in  the  front 
seat  were  white  with  dust;  their  faces,  masked 
by  automobile  glasses,  were  indistinguishable. 
As  though  preparing  for  an  immediate  exit,  the 
car  swung  in  a  circle  until  its  nose  pointed  down 
the  driveway  up  which  it  had  just  come.  Rais 
ing  his  silk  mask  the  one  beside  the  driver 
shouted  at  Judge  Van  Vorst.  His  throat  was 
parched,  his  voice  was  hoarse  and  hot  with 
anger. 

"A  gray  touring-car,"  he  shouted.  "It 
stopped  here.  We  saw  it  from  that  hill.  Then 
the  damn  tire  burst,  and  we  lost  our  way. 
Where  did  he  go?" 

275 


THE  BOY  WHO  CRIED  WOLF 

"Who?"  demanded  Van  Vorst,  stiffly,  "Cap 
tain  McCoy?" 

The  man  exploded  with  an  oath.  The  driver, 
with  a  shove  of  his  elbow,  silenced  him. 

"Yes,  Captain  McCoy,"  assented  the  driver 
eagerly.  "Which  way  did  he  go?" 

:'To  New  York,"  said  Van  Vorst. 

The  driver  shrieked  at  his  companion. 

"Then,  he's  doubled  back,"  he  cried.  "He's 
gone  to  New  Haven."  He  stooped  and  threw 
in  the  clutch.  The  car  lurched  forward. 

A  cold  terror  swept  young  Van  Vorst. 

"What  do  you  want  with  him?"  he  called. 
"Who  are  you?" 

Over  one  shoulder  the  masked  face  glared  at 
him.  Above  the  roar  of  the  car  the  words  of 
the  driver  were  flung  back.  "We're  Secret 
Service  from  Washington,"  he  shouted.  "He's 
from  their  embassy.  He's  a  German  spy !" 

Leaping  and  throbbing  at  sixty  miles  an  hour, 
the  car  vanished  in  a  curtain  of  white,  whirling 
dust. 


276 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

I  HAD  looked  forward  to  spending  Christmas 
with  some  people  in  Suffolk,  and  every  one  in 
London  assured  me  that  at  their  house  there 
would  be  the  kind  of  a  Christmas  house  party 
you  hear  about  but  see  only  in  the  illustrated 
Christmas  numbers.  They  promised  mistletoe, 
snapdragon,  and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  On 
Christmas  morning  we  would  walk  to  church, 
after  luncheon  we  would  shoot,  after  dinner  we 
would  eat  plum  pudding  floating  in  blazing 
brandy,  dance  with  the  servants,  and  listen  to 
the  waits  singing  "God  rest  you,  merry  gentle 
men,  let  nothing  you  dismay." 

To  a  lone  American  bachelor  stranded  in 
London  it  sounded  fine.  And  in  my  gratitude 
I  had  already  shipped  to  my  hostess,  for  her 
children,  of  whose  age,  number,  and  sex  I  was 
ignorant,  half  of  Carnage's  dolls,  skees,  and 
cricket  bats,  and  those  crackers  that,  when  you 
pull  them,  sometimes  explode.  But  it  was  not 
to  be.  Most  inconsiderately  my  wealthiest 
patient  gained  sufficient  courage  to  consent  to 
an  operation,  and  in  all  New  York  would  per 
mit  no  one  to  lay  violent  hands  upon  him  save 

277 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

myself.  By  cable  I  advised  postponement. 
Having  lived  in  lawful  harmony  with  his  appen 
dix  for  fifty  years,  I  thought,  for  one  week 
longer  he  might  safely  maintain  the  status  quo. 
But  his  cable  in  reply  was  an  ultimatum.  So, 
on  Christmas  eve,  instead  of  Hallam  Hall  and  a 
Yule  log,  I  was  in  a  gale  plunging  and  pitching 
off  the  coast  of  Ireland,  and  the  only  log  on. 
board  was  the  one  the  captain  kept  to  himself. 

I  sat  in  the  smoking-room,  depressed  and 
cross,  and  it  must  have  been  on  the  principle 
that  misery  loves  company  that  I  foregathered 
with  Talbot,  or  rather  that  Talbot  foregathered 
with  me.  Certainly,  under  happier  conditions 
and  in  haunts  of  men  more  crowded,  the  open- 
faced  manner  in  which  he  forced  himself  upon 
me  would  have  put  me  on  my  guard.  But, 
either  out  of  deference  to  the  holiday  spirit,  as 
manifested  in  the  fictitious  gayety  of  our  few 
fellow-passengers,  or  because  the  young  man 
in  a  knowing,  impertinent  way  was  most  amus 
ing,  I  listened  to  him  from  dinner  time  until 
midnight,  when  the  chief  officer,  hung  with 
snow  and  icicles,  was  blown  in  from  the  deck 
and  wished  all  a  merry  Christmas. 

Even  after  they  unmasked  Talbot  I  had 
neither  the  heart  nor  the  inclination  to  turn 
him  down.  Indeed,  had  not  some  of  the  pas 
sengers  testified  that  I  belonged  to  a  different 

278 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

profession,  the  smoking-room  crowd  would  have 
quarantined  me  as  his  accomplice.  On  the  first 
night  I  met  him  I  was  not  certain  whether  he 
was  English  or  giving  an  imitation.  All  the 
outward  and  visible  signs  were  English,  but  he 
told  me  that,  though  he  had  been  educated  at 
Oxford  and  since  then  had  spent  most  of  his 
years  in  India,  playing  polo,  he  was  an  Ameri 
can.  He  seemed  to  have  spent  much  time,  and 
according  to  himself  much  money,  at  the  French 
watering-places  and  on  the  Riviera.  I  felt 
sure  that  it  was  in  France  I  had  already  seen 
him,  but  where  I  could  not  recall.  He  was 
hard  to  place.  Of  people  at  home  and  in  Lon 
don  well  worth  knowing  he  talked  glibly,  but  in 
speaking  of  them  he  made  several  slips.  It 
was  his  taking  the  trouble  to  cover  up  the  slips 
that  first  made  me  wonder  if  his  talking  about 
himself  was  not  mere  vanity,  but  had  some 
special  object.  I  felt  he  was  presenting  letters 
of  introduction  in  order  that  later  he  might  ask 
a  favor.  Whether  he  was  leading  up  to  an 
immediate  loan,  or  in  New  York  would  ask  for 
a  card  to  a  club,  or  an  introduction  to  a  banker, 
I  could  not  tell.  But  in  forcing  himself  upon 
me,  except  in  self-interest,  I  could  think  of  no 
other  motive.  The  next  evening  I  discovered 
the  motive. 

He  was  in  the  smoking-room  playing  solitaire, 
279 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

and  at  once  I  recalled  that  it  was  at  Aix-Ies< 
Bains  I  had  first  seen  him,  and  that  he  held  a 
bank  at  baccarat.  When  he  asked  me  to  sit 
down  I  said:  "I  saw  you  last  summer  at  Aix-Ies- 
Bains." 

His  eyes  fell  to  the  pack  in  his  hands  and 
apparently  searched  it  for  some  particular 
card. 

"What  was  I  doing?"  he  asked. 

"Dealing  baccarat  at  the  Casino  des  Fleurs." 

With  obvious  relief  he  laughed. 

"Oh,  yes/'  he  assented;  "jolly  place,  Aix. 
But  I  lost  a  pot  of  money  there.  I'm  a  rotten 
hand  at  cards.  Can't  win,  and  can't  leave 
'em  alone."  As  though  for  this  weakness,  so 
frankly  confessed,  he  begged  me  to  excuse  him, 
he  smiled  appealingly.  "Poker,  bridge,  chemin 
de  fer,  I  like  'em  all,"  he  rattled  on,  "but  they 
don't  like  me.  So  I  stick  to  solitaire.  It's 
dull,  but  cheap."  He  shuffled  the  cards  clum 
sily.  As  though  making  conversation,  he  asked: 
"You  care  for  cards  yourself?" 

I  told  him  truthfully  I  did  not  know  the  dif 
ference  between  a  club  and  a  spade  and  had  no 
curiosity  to  learn.  At  this,  when  he  found  he 
had  been  wasting  time  on  me,  I  expected  him 
to  show  some  sign  of  annoyance,  even  of  irrita 
tion,  but  his  disappointment  struck  far  deeper. 
As  though  I  had  hurt  him  physically,  he  shut 

280 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

his  eyes,  and  when  again  he  opened  them  I  saw 
in  them  distress.  For  the  moment  I  believe  of 
my  presence  he  was  utterly  unconscious.  His 
hands  lay  idle  upon  the  table;  like  a  man  facing 
a  crisis,  he  stared  before  him.  Quite  improp 
erly,  I  felt  sorry  for  him.  In  me  he  thought  he 
had  found  a  victim;  and  that  the  loss  of  the  few 
dollars  he  might  have  won  should  so  deeply 
disturb  him  showed  his  need  was  great.  Almost 
at  once  he  abandoned  me  and  I  went  on  deck. 
When  I  returned  an  hour  later  to  the  smoking- 
room  he  was  deep  in  a  game  of  poker. 

As  I  passed  he  hailed  me  gayly. 

"Don't  scold,  now,"  he  laughed;  "you  know 
I  can't  keep  away  from  it." 

From  his  manner  those  at  the  table  might 
have  supposed  we  were  friends  of  long  and 
happy  companionship.  I  stopped  behind  his 
chair,  but  he  thought  I  had  passed,  and  in 
reply  to  one  of  the  players  answered:  "Known 
him  for  years;  he's  set  me  right  many  a  time. 
When  I  broke  my  right  femur  'chasin,'  he  got 
me  back  in  the  saddle  in  six  weeks.  All  my 
people  swear  by  him." 

One  of  the  players  smiled  up  at  me,  and  Tal- 
bot  turned.  But  his  eyes  met  mine  with  per 
fect  serenity.  He  even  held  up  his  cards  for 
me  to  see.  "What  would  you  draw?"  he 
asked. 

281 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

His  audacity  so  astonished  me  that  in  silence 
I  could  only  stare  at  him  and  walk  on. 

When  on  deck  he  met  me  he  was  not  even 
apologetic.  Instead,  as  though  we  were  part 
ners  in  crime,  he  chuckled  delightedly. 

"Sorry,"  he  said.  "Had  to  do  it.  They 
weren't  very  keen  at  my  taking  a  hand,  so  I 
had  to  use  your  name.  But  I'm  all  right  now," 
he  assured  me.  "They  think  you  vouched  for 
me,  and  to-night  they're  going  to  raise  the 
limit.  I've  convinced  them  I'm  an  easy  mark." 

"And  I  take  it  you  are  not,"  I  said  stiffly. 

He  considered  this  unworthy  of  an  answer 
and  only  smiled.  Then  the  smile  died,  and 
again  in  his  eyes  I  saw  distress,  infinite  weari 
ness,  and  fear. 

As  though  his  thoughts  drove  him  to  seek 
protection,  he  came  closer. 

"I'm  'in  bad,'  doctor,"  he  said.  His  voice 
was  frightened,  bewildered,  like  that  of  a  child. 
"I  can't  sleep;  nerves  all  on  the  loose.  I  don't 
think  straight.  I  hear  voices,  and  no  one 
around.  I  hear  knockings  at  the  door,  and 
when  I  open  it,  no  one  there.  If  I  don't  keep 
fit  I  can't  work,  and  this  trip  I  got  to  make  ex 
penses.  You  couldn't  help  me,  could  you — 
couldn't  give  me  something  to  keep  my  head 
straight?" 

The  need  of  my  keeping  his  head  straight 
282 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

that  he  might  the  easier  rob  our  fellow-passen 
gers  raised  a  pretty  question  of  ethics.  I  meanly 
dodged  it.  I  told  him  professional  etiquette 
required  I  should  leave  him  to  the  ship's  surgeon. 

"But  I  don't  know  iim,"  he  protested. 

Mindful  of  the  use  he  had  made  of  my  name, 
I  objected  strenuously: 

"Well,  you  certainly  don't  know  me." 

My  resentment  obviously  puzzled  him. 

"I  know  who  you  are,"  he  returned.  :<You 
and  I — '!  With  a  deprecatory  gesture,  as 
though  good  taste  forbade  him  saying  who  we 
were,  he  stopped.  "But  the  ship's  surgeon!" 
he  protested,  "he's  an  awful  bounder!  Be 
sides,"  he  added  quite  simply,  "he's  watching 


me." 


"As  a  doctor,"  I  asked,  "or  watching  you 
play  cards?" 

"Play  cards,"  the  young  man  answered. 
"I'm  afraid  he  was  ship's  surgeon  on  the 
P.  &  O.  I  came  home  on.  There  was  trouble 
that  voyage,  and  I  fancy  he  remembers  me." 

His  confidences  were  becoming  a  nuisance., 

"But  you  mustn't  tell  me  that,"  I  protested. 
"I  can't  have  you  making  trouble  on  this  ship, 
too.  How  do  you  know  I  won't  go  straight 
from  here  to  the  captain?" 

As  though  the  suggestion  greatly  entertained 
him,  he  laughed. 

283 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

He  made  a  mock  obeisance. 

"  I  claim  the  seal  of  your  profession,"  he  said. 
"Nonsense,"  I  retorted.  "It's  a  professional 
secret  that  your  nerves  are  out  of  hand,  but 
that  you  are  a  card-sharp  is  not.  Don't  mix 
me  up  with  a  priest." 

For  a  moment  Talbot,  as  though  fearing  he 
had  gone  too  far,  looked  at  me  sharply;  he  bit 
his  lower  lip  and  frowned. 

"I  got  to  make  expenses,"  he  muttered. 
"And,  besides,  all  card  games  are  games  of 
chance,  and  a  card-sharp  is  one  of  the  chances. 
Anyway,"  he  repeated,  as  though  disposing  of 
all  argument,  "I  got  to  make  expenses." 

After  dinner,  when  I  came  to  the  smoking- 
room,  the  poker  party  sat  waiting,  and  one  of 
them  asked  if  I  knew  where  they  could  find 
"my  friend."  I  should  have  said  then  that 
Talbot  was  a  steamer  acquaintance  only;  but  I 
hate  a  row,  and  I  let  the  chance  pass. 

"We  want  to  give  him  his  revenge,"  one  of 
them  volunteered. 

"He's  losing,  then?"  I  asked. 

The  man  chuckled  complacently. 

"The  only  loser,"  he  said. 

"I  wouldn't  worry,"  I  advised.  "He'll  come 
for  his  revenge." 

That  night  after  I  had  turned  in  he  knocked 
at  my  door.  I  switched  on  the  lights  and  saw 

284 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

him  standing  at  the  foot  of  my  berth.  I  saw 
also  that  with  difficulty  he  was  holding  himself 
in  hand. 

"I'm  scared,"  he  stammered,  "scared!" 

I  wrote  out  a  requisition  on  the  surgeon  for  a 
sleeping-potion  and  sent  it  to  him  by  the  stew 
ard,  giving  the  man  to  understand  I  wanted  it 
for  myself.  Uninvited,  Talbot  had  seated  him 
self  on  the  sofa.  His  eyes  were  closed,  and  as 
though  he  were  cold  he  was  shivering  and  hug 
ging  himself  in  his  arms. 

"Have  you  been  drinking?"  I  asked. 

In  surprise  he  opened  his  eyes. 

"/  can't  drink,"  he  answered  simply.  "It's 
nerves  and  worry.  I'm  tired." 

He  relaxed  against  the  cushions;  his  arms 
fell  heavily  at  his  sides;  the  fingers  lay  open. 

"God,"  he  whispered,  "how  tired  I  am!" 

In  spite  of  his  tan — and  certainly  he  had  led 
the  out-of-door  life — his  face  showed  white. 
For  the  moment  he  looked  old,  worn,  finished. 

"They're  crowdin'  me,"  the  boy  whispered. 
"They're  always  crowdin'  me."  His  voice  was 
querulous,  uncomprehending,  like  that  of  a  child 
complaining  of  something  beyond  his  experi 
ence.  "I  can't  remember  when  they  haven't 
been  crowdin'  me.  Movin'  me  on,  you  under 
stand?  Always  movin'  me  on.  Moved  me  out 
of  India,  then  Cairo,  then  they  closed  Paris, 

285 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

and  now  they've  shut  me  out  of  London.  I 
opened  a  club  there,  very  quiet,  very  exclusive, 
smart  neighborhood,  too — a  flat  in  Berkeley 
Street — roulette  and  chemin  de  fer.  I  think  it 
was  my  valet  sold  me  out;  anyway,  they  came 
in  and  took  us  all  to  Bow  Street.  So  I've 
plunged  on  this.  It's  my  last  chance!" 

"This  trip?" 

"No;  my  family  in  New  York.  Haven't  seen 
*em  in  ten  years.  They  paid  me  to  live  abroad. 
I'm  gambling  on  them;  gambling  on  their  takin* 
me  back.  I'm  coming  home  as  the  Prodigal 
Son,  tired  of  filling  my  belly  with  the  husks 
that  the  swine  do  eat;  reformed  character,  re 
pentant  and  all  that;  want  to  follow  the  straight 
and  narrow;  and  they'll  kill  the  fatted  calf." 
He  laughed  sardonically.  "Like  hell  they  will ! 
They'd  rather  see  me  killed." 

It  seemed  to  me,  if  he  wished  his  family  to 
believe  he  were  returning  repentant,  his  course 
in  the  smoking-room  would  not  help  to  reassure 
them.  I  suggested  as  much. 

"If  you  get  into  'trouble,'  as  you  call  it,"  I 
said,  "and  they  send  a  wireless  to  the  police  to 
be  at  the  wharf,  your  people  would  hardly " 

"I  know,"  he  interrupted;  "but  I  got  to 
chance  that.  I  got  to  make  enough  to  go  on 
with — until  I  see  my  family." 

"If  they  won't  see  you?"  I  asked.  "What 
then?" 

286 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sighed  lightly, 
almost  with  relief,  as  though  for  him  the  pros- 
pect  held  no  terror. 

"Then  it's  'Good-night,  nurse,"  he  said. 
"And  I  won't  be  a  bother  to  anybody  any 
more/' 

I  told  him  his  nerves  were  talking,  and  talk 
ing  rot,  and  I  gave  him  the  sleeping-draft  and 
sent  him  to  bed. 

It  was  not  until  after  luncheon  the  next  day 
when  he  made  his  first  appearance  on  deck  that 
I  again  saw  my  patient.  He  was  once  more  a 
healthy  picture  of  a  young  Englishman  of 
leisure;  keen,  smart,  and  fit;  ready  for  any  ex 
ercise  or  sport.  The  particular  sport  at  which 
he  was  so  expert  I  asked  him  to  avoid. 

"Can't  be  done!"  he  assured  me.  "I'm  the 
loser,  and  we  dock  to-morrow  morning.  So  to 
night  I've  got  to  make  my  killing." 

It  was  the  others  who  made  the  killing. 

I  came  into  the  smoking-room  about  nine 
o'clock.  Talbot  alone  was  seated.  The  others 
were  on  their  feet,  and  behind  them  in  a  wider 
semicircle  were  passengers,  the  smoking-room 
stewards  and  the  ship's  purser. 

Talbot  sat  with  his  back  against  the  bulk 
head,  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  dinner 
coat;  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth  his  long 
cigarette-holder  was  cocked  at  an  impudent 
angle.  There  was  a  tumult  of  angry  voices, 

287 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

and  the  eyes  of  all  were  turned  upon  him. 
Outwardly  at  least  he  met  them  with  complete 
indifference.  The  voice  of  one  of  my  country 
men,  a  noisy  pest  named  Smedburg,  was  raised 
in  excited  accusation. 

"When  the  ship's  surgeon  first  met  you,"  he 
cried,  "you  called  yourself  Lord  Ridley." 

"I'll  call  myself  anything  I  jolly  well  like," 
returned  Talbot.  "If  I  choose  to  dodge  re 
porters,  that's  my  pidgin.  I  don't  have  to  give 

my  name  to  every  meddling  busybody  that " 

'You'll  give  it  to  the  police,  all  right,"  chor 
tled  Mr.  Smedburg.  In  the  confident,  bullying 
tones  of  the  man  who  knows  the  crowd  is  with 
him,  he  shouted:  "And  in  the  meantime  you'll 
keep  out  of  this  smoking-room!" 

The  chorus  of  assent  was  unanimous.  It 
could  not  be  disregarded.  Talbot  rose  and 
with  fastidious  concern  brushed  the  cigarette 
ashes  from  his  sleeve.  As  he  moved  toward 
the  door  he  called  back:  "Only  too  delighted 
to  keep  out.  The  crowd  in  this  room  makes 
a  gentleman  feel  lonely." 

But  he  was  not  to  escape  with  the  last  word. 

His  prosecutor  pointed  his  finger  at  him. 

"And  the  next  time  you  take  the  name  of 
Adolph  Meyer,"  he  shouted,  "make  sure  first 
he  hasn't  a  friend  on  board;  some  one  to  protect 
him  from  sharpers  and  swindl< 

288 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

Talbot  turned  savagely  and  then  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"Oh,  go  to  the  devil  I"  he  called,  and  walked 
out  into  the  night. 

The  purser  was  standing  at  my  side  and, 
catching  my  eye,  shook  his  head. 

"Bad  business,"  he  exclaimed. 

"What  happened?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  told  they  caught  him  dealing  from  the 
wrong  end  of  the  pack,"  he  said.  "I  under 
stand  they  suspected  him  from  the  first — seems 
our  surgeon  recognized  him — and  to-night  they 
had  outsiders  watching  him.  The  outsiders 
claim  they  saw  him  slip  himself  an  ace  from  the 
bottom  of  the  pack.  It's  a  pity !  He's  a  nice- 
looking  lad." 

I  asked  what  the  excited  Smedburg  had 
meant  by  telling  Talbot  not  to  call  himself 
Meyer. 

"They  accused  him  of  travelling  under  a 
false  name,"  explained  the  purser,  "and  he  told 
'em  he  did  it  to  dodge  the  ship's  news  reporters. 
Then  he  said  he  really  was  a  brother  of  Adolph 
Meyer,  the  banker;  but  it  seems  Smedburg  is 
a  friend  of  Meyer's,  and  he  called  him  hard! 
It  was  a  silly  ass  thing  to  do,"  protested  the 
purser.  "Everybody  knows  Meyer  hasn't  a 
brother,  and  if  he  hadn't  made  that  break  he 
might  have  got  away  with  the  other  one.  But 

289 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

now  this  Smedburg  is  going  to  wireless  ahead 
to  Mr.  Meyer  and  to  the  police." 

"Has  he  no  other  way  of  spending  his 
money?"  I  asked. 

"He's  a  confounded  nuisance!"  growled  the 
purser.  "He  wants  to  show  us  he  knows  Adolph 
Meyer;  wants  to  put  Meyer  under  an  obliga 
tion.  It  means  a  scene  on  the  wharf,  and  news 
paper  talk;  and,"  he  added  with  disgust, 
"these  smoking-room  rows  never  helped  any 
line." 

I  went  in  search  of  Talbot;  partly  because  I 
knew  he  was  on  the  verge  of  a  collapse,  partly, 
as  I  frankly  admitted  to  myself,  because  I  was 
sorry  the  young  man  had  come  to  grief.  I 
searched  the  snow-swept  decks,  and  then,  after 
threading  my  way  through  faintly  lit  tunnels, 
I  knocked  at  his  cabin.  The  sound  of  his  voice 
gave  me  a  distinct  feeling  of  relief.  But  he 
would  not  admit  me.  Through  the  closed  door 
he  declared  he  was  "all  right,"  wanted  no 
medical  advice,  and  asked  only  to  resume  the 
sleep  he  claimed  I  had  broken.  I  left  him,  not 
without  uneasiness,  and  the  next  morning  the 
sight  of  him  still  in  the  flesh  was  a  genuine 
thrill.  I  found  him  walking  the  deck  carrying 
himself  nonchalantly  and  trying  to  appear 
unconscious  of  the  glances — amused,  contemp 
tuous,  hostile — that  were  turned  toward  him. 

290 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

He  would  have  passed  me  without  speaking, 
but  I  took  his  arm  and  led  him  to  the  rail. 
We  had  long  passed  quarantine  and  a  convoy  of 
tugs  were  butting  us  into  the  dock. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  asked. 

"Doesn't  depend  on  me,"  he  said.  "De 
pends  on  Smedburg.  He's  a  busy  little  body !" 

The  boy  wanted  me  to  think  him  unconcerned, 
but  beneath  the  flippancy  I  saw  the  nerves 
jerking.  Then  quite  simply  he  began  to  tell 
me.  He  spoke  in  a  low,  even  monotone,  dis 
passionately,  as  though  for  him  the  incident  no 
longer  was  of  interest. 

"They  were  watching  me,"  he  said.  "But  I 
knew  they  were,  and  besides,  no  matter  how 
close  they  watched  I  could  have  done  what  they 
said  I  did  and  they'd  never  have  seen  it.  But 
I  didn't." 

My  scepticism  must  have  been  obvious,  for 
he  shook  his  head. 

"I  didn't!"  he  repeated  stubbornly.  "I 
didn't  have  to  !  I  was  playing  in  luck — wonder 
ful  luck — sheer,  dumb  luck.  I  couldn't  help 
winning.  But  because  I  was  winning  and  be 
cause  they  were  watching,  I  was  careful  not  to 
win  on  my  own  deal.  I  laid  down,  or  played  to 
lose.  It  was  the  cards  they  gave  me  I  won  with. 
And  when  they  jumped  me  I  told  'em  that. 
I  could  have  proved  it  if  they'd  listened.  But 

291 


THE  CARD-SHARP 

they  were  all  up  in  the  air,  shouting  and  spitting 
at  me.  They  believed  what  they  wanted  to 
believe;  they  didn't  want  the  facts." 

It  may  have  been  credulous  of  me,  but  I  felt 
the  boy  was  telling  the  truth,  and  I  was  deeply 
sorry  he  had  not  stuck  to  it.  So,  rather  harshly, 
I  said: 

"They  didn't  want  you  to  tell  them  you  were 
a  brother  to  Adolph  Meyer,  either.  Why  did 
you  think  you  could  get  away  with  anything 
like  that?"' 

Talbot  did  not  answer. 

"Why?"  I  insisted. 

The  boy  laughed  impudently. 

"How  the  devil  was  I  to  know  he  hadn't  a 
brother?"  he  protested.  "It  was  a  good  name, 
and  he's  a  Jew,  and  two  of  the  six  who  were  in 
the  game  are  Jews.  You  know  how  they  stick 
together.  I  thought  they  might  stick  by  me." 

"But  you,"  I  retorted  impatiently,  "are  not 
a  Jew!" 

"I  am  not,"  said  Talbot,  "but  I've  often  said 
I  was.  It's  helped— lots  of  times.  If  I'd  told 
you  my  name  was  Cohen,  or  Selinsky,  or  Meyer, 
instead  of  Craig  Talbot,  you'd1  have  thought  I 
was  a  Jew."  He  smiled  and  turned  his  face 
toward  me.  As  though  furnishing  a  descrip 
tion  for  the  police,  he  began  to  enumerate: 

"Hair,  dark  and  curly;  eyes,  poppy;  lips, 
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THE  CARD-SHARP 

full;  nose,  Roman  or  Hebraic,  according  to 
taste.  Do  you  see?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"But  it  didn't  work,"  he  concluded.  "I 
picked  the  wrong  Jew." 

His  face  grew  serious.  "Do  you  suppose 
that  Smedburg  person  has  wirelessed  that 
banker?" 

I  told  him  I  was  afraid  he  had  already  sent 
the  message. 

"And  what  will  Meyer  do?"  he  asked.  "Will 
he  drop  it  or  make  a  fuss?  What  sort  is 
he?" 

Briefly  I  described  Adolph  Meyer.  I  ex 
plained  him  as  the  richest  Hebrew  in  New  York; 
given  to  charity,  to  philanthropy,  to  the  better 
ment  of  his  own  race. 

"Then  maybe,"  cried  Talbot  hopefully,  "he 
won't  make  a  row,  and  my  family  won't  hear  of 
it!" 

He  drew  a  quick  breath  of  relief.  As  though 
a  burden  had  been  lifted,  his  shoulders  straight 
ened. 

And  then  suddenly,  harshly,  in  open  panic, 
he  exclaimed  aloud: 

"Look!"  he  whispered.  "There,  at  the  end 
of  the  wharf — the  little  Jew  in  furs !" 

I  followed  the  direction  of  his  eyes.  Below 
us  on  the  dock,  protected  by  two  obvious  mem- 

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THE  CARD-SHARP 

bers  of  the  strong-arm  squad,  the  great  banker, 
philanthropist,  and  Hebrew,  Adolph  Meyer, 
was  waiting. 

We  were  so  close  that  I  could  read  his  face. 
It  was  stern,  set;  the  face  of  a  man  intent  upon 
his  duty,  unrelenting.  Without  question,  of  a 
bad  business  Mr.  Smedburg  had  made  the  worst. 
I  turned  to  speak  to  Talbot  and  found  him 
gone. 

His  silent  slipping  away  filled  me  with  alarm. 
I  fought  against  a  growing  fear.  How  many 
minutes  I  searched  for  him  I  do  not  know.  It 
seemed  many  hours.  His  cabin,  where  first  I 
sought  him,  was  empty  and  dismantled,  and  by 
that  I  was  reminded  that  if  for  any  desperate 
purpose  Talbot  were  seeking  to  conceal  himself 
there  now  were  hundreds  of  other  empty,  dis 
mantled  cabins  in  which  he  might  hide.  To 
my  inquiries  no  one  gave  heed.  In  the  confusion 
of  departure  no  one  had  observed  him;  no  one 
was  in  a  humor  to  seek  him  out;  the  passengers 
were  pressing  to  the  gangway,  the  stewards 
concerned  only  in  counting  their  tips.  From 
deck  to  deck,  down  lane  after  lane  of  the  great 
floating  village,  I  raced  blindly,  peering  into 
halft-opened  doors,  pushing  through  groups  of 
men,  pursuing  some  one  in  the  distance  who 
appeared  to  be  the  man  I  sought,  only  to  find 
he  was  unknown  to  me.  When  I  returned  to 

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THE  CARD-SHARP 

the  gangway  the  last  of  the  passengers  was 
leaving  it. 

I  was  about  to  follow  to  seek  for  Talbot  in 
the  customs  shed  when  a  white-faced  steward 
touched  my  sleeve.  Before  he  spoke  his  look 
told  me  why  I  was  wanted. 

"The  ship's  surgeon,  sir,"  he  stammered, 
"asks  you  please  to  hurry  to  the  sick-bay.  A 
passenger  has  shot  himself!" 

On  the  bed,  propped  up  by  pillows,  young 
Talbot,  with  glazed,  shocked  eyes,  stared  at 
me.  His  shirt  had  been  cut  away;  his  chest 
lay  bare.  Against  his  left  shoulder  the  doctor 
pressed  a  tiny  sponge  which  quickly  darkened. 

I  must  have  exclaimed  aloud,  for  the  doctor 
turned  his  eyes. 

"It  was  he  sent  for  you,"  he  said,  "but  he 
doesn't  need  you.  Fortunately,  he's  a  damned 
bad  shot!" 

The  boy's  eyes  opened  wearily;  before  we 
could  prevent  it  he  spoke. 

"I  was  so  tired,"  he  whispered.  "Always 
moving  me  on.  I  was  so  tired!" 

Behind  me  came  heavy  footsteps,  and  though 
with  my  arm  I  tried  to  bar  them  out,  the  two 
detectives  pushed  into  the  doorway.  They 
shoved  me  to  one  side  and  through  the  passage 
made  for  him  came  the  Jew  in  the  sable  coat, 
Mr.  Adolph  Meyer. 

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THE  CARD-SHARP 

For  an  instant  the  little  great  man  stood  with 
wide,  owl-like  eyes,  staring  at  the  face  on  the 
pillow. 

Then  he  sank  softly  to  his  knees.  In  both  his 
hands  he  caught  the  hand  of  the  card-sharp. 

"Heine !"  he  begged.  "Don't  you  know  me? 
It  is  your  brother  Adolph;  your  little  brother 
Adolph!" 


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